Full text of "Dorian"
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Brigliam Young University
Author of ''Added Upon/' *' Romance of A
Missionary, ' ' etc.
''The Keys of the Holy Priesthood unlock the Door of
Knowledge and let you look into the Palace of Truth, '*
Salt Lake City, Utah
/ OtJier books by Nephi Anderson.
"ADDED UPON"— A story of the past, the
present, and the future stages of existence.
^THE CASTLE BUILDER"— The scenes and
J', incidents are from the "Land of the Mid-
y night Sun."
;;PINEY RIDGE COTTAGE"— A love story of
v a Mormon country girL Illustrated.
'^STORY OF CHESTER LAWRENCE"— Being
I the completed account of one who played an
V important part in "Piney Ridge Cottage."
:*A DAUGHTER OF THE NORTH"— A story
of a Norwegian girl's trials and triumphs.
"^'JOHN ST. JOHN"— The story of a young man
who went through the soul-trying scenes of
a Missouri and Illinois.
"ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY"— A story of
. English life and missionary experiences.
""MARCUS KING MORMON"— A story of early
days in Utah.
"THE BOYS OF SPRINGTOWN"^A story
about boys for boys and all interested in
Copyrighted 1921 by Nephi Anderson.
THE tmRAMY ^ ■''■
BMGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSII^^i
DORIAN Trent was going to town to buy him-
self a pair of shoes. He had some other
errands to perform for himself and his
mother, but the reason for his going to town was
the imperative need of shoes. It was Friday af-
ternoon. The coming Sunday he must appear
decently shod, so his mother had told him, at the
same time hinting at some other than the Sunday
reason. He now had the money, three big, jin-
riing silver dollars in his pocket.
Dorian whistled cheerfully as he trudged along
the road. It was a scant three miles to town, and
he would rather walk that short distance than to
be bothered with a horse. When he took Old Nig,
he had to keep to the main-traveled road straight
into town, then tie him to a post — and worry about
him all the time ; but afoot and alone, he could
nove along as easily as he pleased, linger on the
:»anal bank or cut cross-lots through the fields to
die river, cross it on the foot-bridge, then go on
:o town f)v the lower meadows.
The road was dusty that afternoon, and the sun
was hot. It would he cooler under the willows
by the river. At Cottonwood Corners, Dorian left
the road and took the cut-off path. The river
sparkled cool and clear under the overhanging
willows. He saw m good-sized trout playing in
the pool, but as he had no fishing tackle with him,
the boy could only watch the fish in its graceful
gliding in and out of sunshine and shadow. A
robin overhead was making a noisy demonstration
as if in alarm about a nest. Dorian sat on the
bank to look and listen for a few moments, then
he got up again.
Crossing the river, he took the cool foot-path
under the willows. He cut down one of the
smoothest, sappiest branches with which to make
whistles. Dorian was a great maker of whistles,
which he freely gave away to the smaller boys
and girls whom he met. Just as it is more fun
to catch fish' than to eat them, so Dorian found
more pleasure in giving away his whistles than to
stuff them in his own pockets. However, that
afternoon, he had to hurry on to town, so he
caught no fish, and made only one whistle which
he found no opportunity to give away. In the
city, he attended to his mother's errands first. He
purchased the few notions which the store in his
home town of Greenstreet did not have, checking
each item off on a slip of paper with a stub of
a pencil. Then, there were his shoes.
Should he get lace or button, black or tan?
Were there any bargains in shoes that afternoon?
He would look about to see. He found nothing
in the way of footwear on Main street which ap-
pealed to him. He lingered at the window of the
book store, looking with envious eyes at the display
of new books. He was well known by the book-
seller, for he was a frequent visitor, and, once in
a while, he made a purchase; however, to day he
must not spend too much time '^browsing" among
books. He would, however, just slip around to
Twenty-fifth street and take a look at the second-
hand store there. Not to buy shoes, of course,
but sometimes there were other interesting things
there, especially books.
Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the
sidewalk in front of this second-hand store was
a lot of books, a hundred or more — books of all
kind — school books, history, fiction, all of them
in good condition, some only a little shopworn,
others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly looked
them over. Here were books he had read about,
but had not read — and the prices! Dickens' ''David
Copperfield'^ ''Tale of Two Cities'', "Dombey
and Son", large well-printed books, only a little
shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackery's "Vani-
ty Pair", twenty-five cents; books by Mrs. Hum-
phrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson
Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian
had, of course, read "Robinson Crusoe" but he
had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's
this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two vol-
limes, new, fifty cents each! Dorian turned the
leaves. A man stepped up and also began han-
dling the books. Yes, here were bargains, surely.
He stacked a number together as if he desired to
secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped
the other volume of the Conquest under his arm
and made as if to gather a number of other books
under his protection. He must have some of these
before they were all taken by others. The sales-
man now came up to him and asked :
^'Find something you want?"
''0, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian.
*' They 're bargains."
Dorian needed not to be told that.
*' They 're going fast, too."
**Yes, I suppse so."
His heart fell as he said it, for he realized
that he had no money to buy books. He had come
to towm to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He
glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly
falling to pieces, but they might last a little
longer. If he bought the ** Conquest of Peru"
he would still have two dollars left. Could he
buy a pair of shoes for that amount? Very likely
but not the kind his mother had told him to get,
the kind that were not too heavy or ** stogy''
looking, but would be ''nice" for Sundays. H^
held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens
and Thackery were still protectingly within his
reach. What could he do?
Down there in Peru there had been a wonder-
ful people whom Pizarro, the bad, bold Spaniard
had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about
it all vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was
the whole story, beautifully and minutely told. He
must have these books. This bargain might never
come again to him. But what would his mother
say? She herself had added the last half dollar
to his amount to make sure that he could get the
''Well, sir, how many of these will you haveT'
asked the salesman.
''Ill — 111 take these two, anyway" — meaning
Prescott's Conquest — *^and let me see' \ he looked
hungrily over the titles — *'And this one * David
Copperf ield \ " It was hard to select from so
many tempting ones. Here was one he had missed :
"Ben Hur" — , a fine new copy in blue and gold.
He had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole
story was as interesting as that, he must have it.
He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his
hand touched lovingly a number of other books,
but he resisted the temptation, and said: "That's
all — this time.''
The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper
and handed the package to Dorian who paid for
them with his two silver dollars, receiving some
small silver in change. Then, with his package
under his arm, the boy walked on down the street.
Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what
he had done. How could he face his mother?
How could he go home without shoes? Books
might be useful for the head, but they would not
clothe the feet. He jingled the coins in his
pocket as he walked on down to the end of the
business section of the city. He could not buy
any kind of shoes to fit his big feet for a dollar
and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do
but to go home, and ^*face the music'', so he
walked on in a sort of fearsome elation. At a
corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to
books, Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy
some candy for the twenty cents. He went into
the store and took his time looking at the tempting
display, finally buying ten cents worth of choco-
lates for himself and ten cents worth of pepper-
mint lozenges for his mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old,
was very much a child; he did many childish
things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man;
the child in him and the man in him did not seem
to merge into the boy, but were somewhat ^'sepa-
rate and apart,'' as the people of Greenstreet
Dorian again took the less frequented road
home. The sun was still high when he reached
the river. He was not expected home for some
time yet, so there was no need for hurry. He
crossed the footbridge, noticing neither birds nor
fish. Instead of following the main path, he
struck off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny
grass plat in the shade of a tree by the river. He
sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back
from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of
wavy, rusty-colored hair. Then he untied his
package of books and spread his treasures before
him as a miser would his gold. He opened *' David
Copperfield'', looked at the frontispiece which de-
picted a fat man making a very emphatic speech
against someone by the name of Heep. It must all
be very interesting^ but it was altogether too big
a book for him to begin to read now. ''Ben Hur''
looked solid and substantial; it would keep until
next winter when he would have more time to
read. Then he picked up the ''Conquest'', volume
one. He backed up against the tree, settled him-
self into a comfortable position, took from his
paper bag a chocolate at which he nibbled con-
tentedly, and then away he went with Prescott
to the land of the Inca and the glories of a van-
For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he
closed his book, wrapped up his package again,
and went on his homeward way.
The new canal for which the farmers of Green-
street had worked and waited so long had just
been completed. The big ditch, now full of run-
ning water, was a source of delight to the chil-
dren as well as to the more practical adults. The
boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and
sported in the cool stream. Near the village of
Greenstreet was a big headgate, from which the
canal branched into two divisions. As Dorian
walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he
saw a group of children at play near the headgate.
They were making a lot of robust noise, and
Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always
interested in the children, being more of a favorite
among them than among the boys of his own
'* There's Dorian/' shouted one of the boys.
* ' Who are you going to marry ? * '
What in the world were the youngsters talking
about, thought the young man, as the chattering
children surrounded him.
'' What's all this?" asked Dorian, ^'a party?''
''Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; w^e're just taking
a walk by the canal to see the water; my, but
''What, the party or the water?"
"Why, the water."
"Both" added another.
"We've all told who we're going to marry,"
remarked a little rosy-faced miss, "all but Carlia,
an' she won't tell."
"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You
wouldn't have her tell a fib, would you?"
"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us."
"She's just stubborn."
She who was receiving these criticisms seemed
to be somewhat older and larger than her
companions. Just now, not deigning to notice
the accusation of her friends, she was throwing
sticks into the running w^ater and watching them
go over the falls at the headgate and dance on
the rapids below. Her white party dress was as
yet spotless. She swung her straw hat by the
string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an
unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not
the least discomposed by the teasing of the other
children, neither by Dorian's presence. This was
her party, and why should not she do and say
what Ae pleased.
Carlia now led the way along the canal bank
until she came to where a pole spanned the stream.
Slie stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure
footbridge, then turning to her companions, said :
' ' I can back you out. ' '
'^How? Doin' what?'' they asked.
''Crossing the canal on the pole."
''Shucks, you can't back me out/' declared one
of the boys, at which he darted across the sway-
ing pole, and with a jump, landed safely across.
Another boy went at it gingerly, and 'v\dth the an-
tics of a tight-rope walker, he managed to get
to the other side. The other boys held back;
none of the girls ventured.
''All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the
The girl stood looking at the frail pole.
"Come on, it's easy," they encouraged.
Carlia placed her foot on the pole as if testing
it. The other girls protested. She would fall in
"You dared us; now who's the coward," cried
Caiiia took a step forward, balanced herelf, and
took another. The children stood in spell-bound
silence. The girl advanced slowly along the frail
bridge until she reached the middle where the pole
** Balance yourself/' suggested the second boy,
''Run,'' said the first.
But Carlia could neither balance nor run. She
stood for a moment on the oscillating span, then
threw up her hands, and with a scream she
plunged into the waters of the canal.
No thought of danger had entered Dorian's mind
as he stood watching the capers of the children.
If any of them fell in, he thought, they would
only get a good wetting. But as Carlie fell, he
sprang forward. The water at this point was
quite deep and running swiftly. He saw that
Oarlia fell on her side and went completely under.
The children screamed. Dorian, startled out of
his apathy, suddenly ran to the canal and jumped
in. It was done so impulsively that he still held
on to his package of books. With one hand he
lifted the girl out of the water, but in her strug-
gles, she knocked the bundle from his hand, and
the precious books splashed into the canal and
floated dow^n the stream. Dorian made an effort
to rescue them, but Carlia clung so to his arms that
he could do nothing but stand and see the package
glide over the falls at the headgate and then go
dancing over the rapids, even as Carlia 's sticks
had done. For a moment the young man's thoughts
were with his books, and it seemed that he stood
there in the canal for quite a while in a sort of
daze, with the w^ater rushing by his legs. Then
mechanically he carried the girl' to the bank and
would have set her down again with her com-
/panions, but she clung to him so closely and with
such terror in her eyes that he lifted her into his
arms and talked reassuringly to her:
''There, now%" he said, ''you're only a bit wet.
"Take me home. I — I want to go home,"
sobbed the girl.
"Sure," said Dorian. "Come on everybody."
He led the way, and the rest of the children
"I suppose the party's about over, anyway,"
"I — I guess so."
They walked on in silence for a time; then
Oarlia said :
"I guess Fm heavy."
"Not at all", lied the young man bravely, for
she Avas heavier than he had supposed; but she
made no offer to walk. By the time they reached
the gate, Carlia was herself again, and in-
clined to look upon her wetting and escape as
quite an adventure.
"There," said Dorian as he seated the girl on
the broad top of the gate post; "I'll leave you
there to dry. It won't take long."
He looked at his own wet clothes, and tl^^n at
his ragged, mud-laden shoes. He might as well
carry the girl up the path to her home, but then,
that was not necessary. The day was warm,
there was no danger of colds, and she could run
up the path in a few minutes.
*^Well, 111 go now. Goodby/' he said.
''Wait a minute — Say, I'm glad you saved me,
but I'm sorry you lost your package. What was
"I'll get you some more, when I get the
money, yes I will. Come here and lift me down
before you go."
He obeyed. She put a wet arm about his neck
and cuddled her dark, damp curls against his
russet mop. He lifted her lightly down, and then
he slipped a chocolate secretly into her hand.
"Oh girls," exclaimed one of the party, "I
"Know what?" asked Carlia.
"I know who you are going to marry."
"You're going to marry Dorian."
THJ] disposition to lie or evade never remained
long with Dorian Trent ; but that evening as
he turned into the lane which led up to the
house, he was sorely tempted. Once or twice only,
as nearly as he could remember, had he told an un-
truth to his mother with results which he would
never forget. He must tell her the truth now.
But he. would put off the ordeal as long as
possible. /There could be no harm in that. Every-
thing was quiet about the house, as his mother
was away. He hurriedly divested himself of his
best clothes and put on his overalls. He took the
milk pail and hung it on the fence until he
brought the cows from the pasture. After milk-
ing, he did his other chores. There were no signs
of mother. The dusk turned to darkness, yet no
light appeared in the house. Dorian went in and
lighted the lamp and proceeded to get supper.
The mother came presently, carrying a bag of
wool. ''A big herd of sheep went by this after-
noon,'' she explained, ''and they left a lot of
fine wool on the barbed-wire fences. See, I have
gathered enough for a pair of stockings/' She
''You're tired," said Dorian.
"Well, you sit and rest; I'll soon have the
supper on the table." This was no difficult task,
as the evening meal was usually a very simple
one, and Dorian had frequently prepared it. This
evening as the mother sat there quietly she
looked at her son with admiring eyes. What a
big boy he was getting to be! He had always
been big, it seemed to her. He had been a big
baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big
young man. He had a big head and big feet,
big hands. His nose and mouth were big, and
big freckles dotted his face— yes, and a big heart,
as his mother very well knew. Along with his
bigness of limb and body there was a certain
awkwardness. He never could run as fast as the
other boys, and he always fumbled the ball in
their games though he could beat them swimming.
So far in his youthful career he had not learned
to dance. The one time he had tried, his girl
partner had made fun of his awkwardness, so
that ended his dancing. But Dorian was not
clumsy about his mother's home and table. He
handled the dishes as daintily as a girl, and the
table was set and the food served in a very
"Did you get your shoes, Dorian?"
Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was
not at all hot.
''Mother, sit up; supper is ready.''
They both drew up their chairs. Dorian asked
the blessing, then became unusually solicitous in
helping his mother, continually talking as he did
''That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in
the canal, this afternoon,'' he told her, going on
with the details. ''She's a plucky little thing.
Ten minutes after I had her out of the canal, she
was as lively as ever."
The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did
not interrupt him. After they had eaten, he
forced her to take her rocking-chair while he
cleared the table and washed the few dishes. She
asked no more questions about shoes, but leaned
back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Dorian
thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fear-
ing that it might lead to more questions, he did
Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work
had bent her back and roughened her hands. Her
face was pleasant to look upon, even if there were
some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the
temples. She closed her eyes as if she were go-
ing to sleep.
"Now, mother, you're going to bed", said
Dorian. "You have tired yourself out with this
wool picking. I thought I told you before that I
would gather what wool there was."
''But you weren't here, and I could not stand
to see the wind blowing it away. See, what a
fine lot I got.'^ She opened her bundle and dis-
played her fleece.
''Well, put it away. You can't card and spin
and knit it tonight/'
"It will have to be washed first, you foolish
Dorian got his mother to bed without further
reference to shoes. He went to his own room
with a conscience not altogether easy. He lighted
his lamp, which was a good one, for he did a lot
of reading by it. The electric wires had not yet
reached Greenstreet. Dorian stood looking about
his room. It was not a very large one, and some-
Avhat sparsely furnished. The bed seemed self-
ishly to take up most of the space. Against one
wall was set some home-made shelving contain-
ing books. He had quite a library. Thei'e were
books of various kinds, gathered with no par-
ticular plan or purpose, but as means and oppor-
tunity afforded. In one corner stood a scroll
saw, now not very often used. Pictures of a
full-rigged sailing vessel and a big modern steamer
hung on the wall above his books. On another
wall were three small prints, landscapes where
there were great distances with much light and
warmth. Over his bed hung an artist's conception
of "Lorna Doone," a beautiful face, framed in a
mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a
dreamy look in her eyes.
''That's my girl/' Dorian sometimes said, point-
ing to this picture. ''No one can take her from
me; we never quarrel; and she never scolds or
frowns. ' '
On another wall hung a portrait of his father,
who had been dead nine years. His father had
been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer.
Eventually, this longing had been realized in the
purchase of the tw^enty acres in Greenstreet, at that
time a village with not one street which could be
called green, and Avithout a sure water supply for
irrigation, at least on the land which would grow
corn and potatoes and wheat. To be sure, there
was water enough of its kind down on the lower
slopes, besides saleratus and salt grass and cat-
tails and the tang of marshlands in the air.
Schoolmaster Trent's operations in farming had
not been very successful, and when he died, the
result of his failure was a part of the legacy
which descended to his wife and son.
Dorian took a book from the shelf as if to read;
but visions intruded of some beautiful volumes,
now somewhere down the canal, a mass of water-
soaked paper. He could not read. He finished
his last chocolate, said his prayers, arid went to
Saturday was always a busy day with Dorian
and his mother; but that morning Mrs. Trent was
up earlier than usual. The white muslin curtains
were already in the wash when Dorian looked at
his mother in the summer kitchen.
^*What, washing tadayf he asked in surprise.
Monday was washday.
''The curtains were black; they must be clean
''You can see dirt where I can't see it."
"IVe been looking for it longer, my boy. And,
say, fix up the line you broke the other day."
The morning was clear and cool. He did his
chores, then went out to his ten-acre field of wheat
and lucerne. The grain was heading beautifully;
and there were prospects of three cuttings of hay;
the potatoes were doing fine, also the corn and
the squash and the melons. The young farmer's
heart was made glad to see the coming harvest,
all the work of his own hands.
For this was the first real crop they had raised.
For years they had struggled and pinched. Some-
times Dorian was for giving up and moving to
the city; but the mother saw brighter prospects
when the new canal should be finished. And then
her boy would be better off working for himself
on the farm than drudging for others in the town;
besides, she had a desire to remain on the spot
made dear by her husband's work; and so they
struggled along, making their payments on the
land and later on the canal stock. The summit
of their difficulties seemed now to have passed,
and better times were ahead. Dorian looked dowa
at his ragged shoes and laughed to himself good-
naturedly. Shucks, in a few months he would
have plenty of money to buy shoes, perhaps also
a Sunday suit for himself, and everything his
mother needed. And if there should happen to
be more book bargains, he might venture in that
Breakfast passed without the mention of shoes.
What was his mother thinking about? She seemed
uncommonly busy with cleaning an uncommonly
clean house. When Dorian came home from irri-
gating at noon, he kicked off his muddy shoes
by the shanty door, so as not to soil her cleanly
scrubbed floor or to stain the neat home-made
rug. There seemed to be even more than the
extra cooking in preparation for Sunday.
The mother looked at Dorian coming so noise-
lessly in his stocking feet.
'^You didn't show me your new shoes last
night," she said.
'*Say, mother, what's all this extra cleaning
and cooking about?''
'^We're going to have company tomorrow/'
^^ Company? Who?"
*a'll tell you about it at the table."
''Do you remember," began the mother when
they were seated," a lady and her little girl who
visited us some two years ago?"
Yes, he had some recollection of them. He re-
membered the girl, specially, spindle-legged, with
round eyes, pale cheeks, and an unaommonly long
braid of yellow hair hanging down her back.
''Well, they're coming to see us tomorrow.
Mrs. Brown is an old-time friend of mine, and
Mildred is an only ehild. The gii4 is not strong,
and so I invited them to come here and get
some good country air."
''To stay with us, motlierT' asked the boy in
''Just to visit. It's terribly hot in the city.
We have plenty of fresh eggs and good milk,
which, I am sure is just what the child needs.
Mrs. Brown cannot stay more than the day, so
she says, but I am going to ask that Mildred visits
with us for a week anyway. I think I can bring
some color into her cheeks.''
"Oh, gee, mother!'^ he remonstrated.
"Now, Dorian, be reasonable. She's such a
simple, quiet girl. She will not be in the way
in the least. I want you to treat her nicely."
Dorian had finished his dinner and was gazing
out of the window. There was an odd look on
his face. The idea of a girl living right here
Avith them in the same house startled and troubled
him. His mother had called her a little girl, but
he remembered her as being only a year or two
younger than he. Gee!
"That's why I wanted you to get a pair of
decent shoes for tomorrow," said the mother, "and
I told you to get a nice pair. I have brushed and
pressed your clothes, but you must get a new suit
as soon as possible. Where are your shoes? I
couldn't find them."
"I — didn't get any shoes, mother." ,
^^Didn^t get any? Why notr^
'*Well, you see — I didn't know about these
visitors coming, mother, and so I — bought some
books for most of my money, and so; but mother,
don't get mad — I — "
*^ Books? What books? Where are they?"
And then Dorian told her plainly the whole
miserable stoiy. At first the mother was angry,
but when she saw the troubled face of her boy,
she relented, not wishing to add to his misery.
She even smiled at the calamitous ending of
' ' My boy, I see that you have been sorely
tempted, and I am sorry that you lost your books.
The wetting that Carlia gave you did no harm . . .
but you must have some shoes by tomorrow.
The mother went to the bureau drawer, oi^ened
the lid of a little box, drew from the box a purse,
and took froru the purse two silver dollars. She
handed them to Dorian.
'*6o to town again this afternoon and get some
''But, mother, I hate to take your money. I
think I can black my old ones so that they will
not look so bad."
''Blacking will not fill the holes. Now, you
do as I say. Jump on Nig and go right away."
Dorian put the money in his pocket, then went
out to the yard and slipped a bridle on his horse,
mounted, and was back to the house.
''New, Dorian, remember what I say. Get you
a nice pair, a nice Sunday pair.'*
''All right, mother, I will/'
He rode off at a gallop. He lingered not by
creeks or byways, but went directly to the best
shoe store in the city, where he made his purchase.
He stopped neither at book store or candy shops.
His horse was sweating when he rode in at the
home yard. His mother hearing him, came out.
"You made quick time,'' she said.
"Yes; just to buy a pair of shoes doesn't take
"You got the right kind?"
"Sure. Here, look at 'em." He handed her
"I can't look at them now. Say, Dorian — "she
came out nearer to him — "They are here."
"Mrs. Brown and her daughter. They got a
chance to ride out this afternoon, so they did not
wait until tomorrow. Lucky I cleaned up this
morning. Mildred is not a bit well, and she is
lying down now. Don't make any naore noise
than you can help."
"Gee — but, mother, gosh!" He was very much
"They are dear, good people. They know we
are simple farmers. Just you wash yourself and
take off those dirty overalls before you come in.
And then you just behave yourself. We're going
to have something nice for supper. Now, don't
be too long with your hoeing or with your chores,
for supper A\dll be early this evening/'
Dorian hoed only ten rows that afternoon for
the reason that he sat down to rest and to think
at the end of each row. Then he dallied so with
his chores that his mother had to call him twice.
At last he could find no more excuses between
him and the strange company. He went in with
much fear and some invisible trembling.
ABOUT six o'clock in the afternoon, Mildred
Brown went down through the fields to
the lower pasture. She wore a gingham
apron which covered her from neck to high-
topped boots. She carried in one hand an easel
and stpol and in the other hand a box of colors.
Mildred came each day to a particular spot in this
lower pasture and set up her easel and stool in
the shade of a black willow bush to paint a par-
ticular scene. She did her work as nearly as
possible at the same time each afternoon to get
the same effect of light and shade and the same
stretch of reflected sunlight on the open water
spaces in the marshland.
And the scene before her was worthy of a
master hand, which, of course, Mildred Brown was
not as yet. Prom her position in the shade of the
willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands
toward the west. Nearby, at the edge of the
firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew luxuriously,
now crowned with large, glossy-brown ''cat-tails.''
The flats to the left were spotted by beds of white
and black saleratus and bunches of course salt
grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the
sun, winding in and out among reeds, and at this
hour every clear afternoon, shining with the un-
dimmed reflection of the burning sun. The air
was laden with salty odors of the marshes. A
light afternoon haze hung over the distance.
Pi'ogs were lazily croaking, and the killdeer'3
shrill cry came plaintively to the ear. A number
af cows stood knee-deep in mud and water, round
as barrels, and breathing hard, with tails unceas-
ingly switching away the flies.
Dorian was in the field turning the water on
his lucerne patch when he saw Mildred coming
as usual down the path. He had not expected her
that afternoon as he thought the picture which
she had been working on was finished; but after
adjusting the flow of water, he joined her, re-
lieving her of stool and easel. They then walked
on together, the big farm boy in overalls and the
tall graceful girl in the enveloping gingham.
Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days,
by which time Dorian had about gotten over his
timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not
been difficult. The girl was not a bit ''stuck up,''
and she entered easily and naturally into the
home life on the farm. She had changed con-
siderably since Dorian had last seen her, some
two yeai*s ago. Her face was still pale, although
it seemed that a little pink was now creeping into
her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and
blue; her hair was now done up in thick shining
braids. She talked freely to Dorian and his
mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent
been able to find his tongue in the presence of a
girl nearly his own age.
The two stopped in the shade of the willow.
He set up the easel and opened the stool, while
she got out her colors and brushes.
''Thank you/' she said to him. ''Did you get
through with your work in the field?"
"I was just turning the water on the lucerne.
I got through shocking the wheat some time
"Is there a good crop? I don't know much
about such things, but I want to learn." She
smiled up into his ruddy face.
"The wheat is fine. The heads are well de-
veloped. I wouldn't be surprised if it went fifty
bushels to the acre."
"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the
tubes of colors on to the palette.
Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated
herself, placed the canvas on the easel, and be-
gan mixing the colors.
"I thought you finished that picture yester-
day," he said.
"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought
I would put in another hour on it. The setting
sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I
want to put a little more of its beauty into my
picture, if I can."
The young man seated himself on the grass well
toward the rear where he could see her at work.
He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make
a beautiful picture out of such a commonplace
thing as a saleratus swamp. But then, he was be-
ginning to think that this girl was capable of
endless wonders. He had met no other girl just
like her, so young and so beautiful, and yet so
talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet so
simple in manner of her life; so high born and
bred, and yet so companionable with those of
The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red
on to her palette. She gazed for a moment at
the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she
''Do you think I dare put a little more red in
''Dare?" he repeated.
The young man followed the pointing finger
of the girl into the flaming depths of the sky,
then came and leaned carefully over the paint-
"Tell me which is redder, the real or the pic-
ture?'' she asked.
Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The
sky is redder," be decided.
"And yet if I make my picture as red as the
sky naturally is, many people would say that
it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway."
Then she carefully laid on a little more color.
''Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more
intense than any representation of nature."
She worked on in silence for a few moments,
then without looking from her canvas, she asked:
''Do you like being a farmer?''
"Oh, I guess so," he replied somewhat indef-
initely. "IVe lived on a farm all my life, and
I don't know anything else. I used to think I
would like to get away, but mother always wanted
to stay. There's been a lot of hard work for both
of us, but now things are coming more our way,
and I like it better. Anyway, I couldn't live in
the city now."
"Well, I don't seem able to breathe in the
city, with its smoke and its noise and its crowding
together of houses and people."
"You ought to go to Chicago or New York or
Boston," she replied. "Then you would see some
crowds and hear some noises."
"Have you been there?"
"I studied drawing and painting in Boston.
Next to farming, what would you like to do?"
He thought for a moment — "When I was a
"Which you are not," she interrupted as .she
"I thought that if I ever could attain to the
position of standing behind a counter in a store
where I could take a piece of candy whenever I
wanted it, I should have attained to the heights
of happiness. But, now, of course — "
^^Well, and now?"
''I believe I'd like to be a school teacher."
'^Why a teacher?"
'* Because I'd then have the chance to read
a lot of books."
'*You like to read, don't you? and you like
candy, and you like pictures."
''Especially, when someone else paints them."
Mildred arose, stepped back to get the distance
for examination. *'I don't think I had better use
more color," she commented, ''but those cat-tails
in the corner need touching up a bit."
"I suppose you have been to school a lotV '
"No; just completed the high school; then, not
being very strong, mother thought it best not to
send me to the University; but she lets me dabble
a little in painting and in music."
Dorian could not keep his eyes off this girl
who had already completed the high school course
which he had not yet begun; besides, she had
learned a lot of other things which would be
beyond him to ever reach. Even though he
were an ignoramus, he could bask in the light of
her greater learning. She did not resent that.
"What do you study in High School?" he
"Oh, a lot of things — ^don't you know?" She
again looked up at him.
"We studied algebra and mathematics and Eng-
lish and English literature, and French, and a
lot of other things.''
^•What's algebra like?"
''Oh dear, do you want me to draw it?"
''Can you draw it?"
''About as well as I can tell it in words. Alge-
bra is higher mathematics; yes, that's it." *-^^
'^And what's the difference between English
and English literature?"
"English is grammar and how sentences are
or should be made. English literature is made
up mostly of the reading of the great authors,
such as Milton and Shakespeare."
"Gee!" exclaimed Dorian, "that would be
"Fun? just you try it. Nobody reads these
writers now only in school, where they have to.
But say, Dorian" — she arose to inspect her work
again. "Have I too much purple in that bunch
of salt-grass on the left? What do you think?"
"I don't see any purple at all in the real
grass," he said.
"There is purple there, however; but of course,
you, not being an artist, cannot see it." She
laughed a little for fear he might think her pro-
"What— what is an artist?"
"An artist is one who has learned to see more
than other people can in the common things about
The definition was not quite clear to him. He
had proved that he could see farther and clearer
than she could when lookinjf at trees or chip-
munks. He looked critically again at the picture.
''I mean, of course,'' she added, as she noted
his puzzled look/' that an artist is one who sees
in nature the beauty in form, in light and shade,
and in color/'
*'You havn't put that tree in the right place,''
he objected! ''and you have left out that house
''This is not a photograph," she answered. "I
put in my picture only that which I want there.
The tree isn't in the right place, so I moved it.
The house has no business in the picture because
I want it to represent a scene of wild, open
lonesomeness. I want to make the people who
look at it feel so lonesome that they want to cry!"
She was an odd girl!
''Oh, don't you understand. I want them only
to feel like it. When you saw that charcoal
drawing I made the other day, you laughed."
''Well, it was funny."
"That's just it. An artist wants to be able to
make people feel like laughing or crying, for then
he knows he has reached their soul."
"I've got to look after the water for a few
minutes, then I'll come back and help you carry
your things," he said. "You're about through,
"Thank you; I'll be ready now in a few minmtes.
Go see to your water. Til wait for you. How
beautiful the west is now!"
They stood silently for a few moments side by
side, looking at the glory of the setting sun
through banks of clouds and then down behind
the purple mountain. Then Dorian, with shovel
on shoulder, hastened to his irrigating. The
blossoming field of lucerne was usually a common
enough sight, but now it was a stretch of sweet-
scented waves of green and purple.
Mildred looked at the farmer boy until he
disappeared behind the willow fence, then she
began to pack up her things. Presently, she heard
some low bellowing, and, looking up, she saw a
number of cows, with tails erect, galloping across
the fields. They had broken the fence, and were
now having a gay frolic on forbidden grounds.
Mildred saw that they were making directly for
the corner of the pasture where she was. She
was afraid of cows, even when they were within
the quiet enclosure of the yard, and here was a
wild lot apparently coming upon her to destroy
her. She crouched ^error stricken, as if to take
shelter behind the frail bulwark of her easel.
Then she saw a horse leap through the gap in
the fence and come galloping after the cows. On
the horse was a girl, not a large girl, but she
was riding fearlessly, bare-back, and urging the
horse to greater strides. Her black hair was
trailing in the wind as she waved a willow switch
and shouted lustily at the cows. She managed
to head the cows off before they had reached
Mildred, rounding them up sharply and driving
them back through the breach into the road which
they followed quietly homeward. The rider tlien
galloped back to the frightened girl.
''Did the cows scare you?'' she asked.
''Yes/' panted Mildred. "I'm so frightened
of cows, and these were so wild."
"They were just playing. They wouldn't hurt
you; but they did look fierce."
"Whose cows were they?"
"They're ours. I have to get them up every
day. Sometimes when the flies are bad they get
a little mad, but I'm not afraid of them. They
know me, you bet. I can milk the kickiest one
of the lot."
"Do you milk the cows?"
"Sure— but what is that?" The rider had
caught sight of the picture. "Did you make
"Yes; I painted it."
"My!" She dismounted, and with arm through
bridle, she and the horse came up for a closer
view of the picture. The girl looked at it mutely
for a moment. "It's pretty" she said; "I wish
I could make a picture like that."
Mildred smiled at her. She was such a round,
rosy girl, so full of health and life and color.
Not such a little girl either, now a nearer view
was obtained. She was only a year or two
younger than Mildred herself.
'*I wish I could do what you can," said the
painter of pictures.
''I — what? I can't do anything like that."
''No; but you can ride a horse, and stop
runaway cows. You can do a lot of things that
I cannot do because you are stronger than I am.
I wish I had some of that rosy red in your
''You can have some of mine," laughed the
other, "for I have more than enough; but you
wouldn't like the freckles."
"I wouldn't mind them, I'm sure; but let me
thank you for what you did, and let's get ac-
quainted." Mildred held out her hand, which the
other took somewhat shyly. "Don't you have to go
home with your cows?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Then we'll go back together." She gathered
her material and they walked on up the path,
Mildred ahead, for she was timid of the horse
which the other led by the bridle rein. At the
bars in the corner of the upper pasture the horse
was turned loose into his own feeding ground,
and the girls went on together.
"You live near here, don't you?" inquired
"Yes, just over there."
"Oh, are you Garlia Duke?"
"Yes; how did you know?"
"Dorian has told me about you."
''Has he? We're neighbors; an' you're the girl
that's visiting with the Trent's?"
"Well, I'm glad to meet you. Dorian has told
me about you, too."
Thus these two, meeting for the first time,
went on chatting together; and thus Dorian saw
them. He had missed Mildred at the lower past-
ure, and so, with shovel again on shoulder, he
had followed up the homeward path. The girls
were some distance ahead, so he did not try to
overtake them. In fact, he slackened his pace a
little, so as not to get too close to them to disturb
them; but he saw them plainly walk close to-
gether up the road in the twilight of the summer
evening, the tall, light-haired Mildred, and the
shorter, dark-haired Carlia; and the child in
Dorian seemed to vanish, and the man in him
asserted himself in thought and feelings which
it would have been hard for him to describe in
INDIAN summer lay drowsily over the land.
It had come late that season, but its rare
beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its
golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had
also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent.
The light coating of frost which each morning lay
on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the
earth was warm and dry.
Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great
haste with his work. He did not urge his horses,
for they also seemed imbued with the languidness
of the season. He let them rest frequently, espe-
cially at the end of the furrow where there was
a grassy bank on which the plovnnan could lie
prone on his back and look into the dreamy dis-
tances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds.
Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that
afternoon, so he thought. The summer's work
was practically over: the wheat had been thrash-
ed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were
in the pit; the corn stood in Indian wigwam
bunches in the yard; the fruit and vegetables,
mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient
for their simple needs. They were well provided
for the winter; and so Dorian was happy and
contented as everyone in like condition should be
on such an Indian summer afternoon.
Mildred Brown 's visit to the farm had ended some
weeks ago; but only yesterday his mother had re-
ceived a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her
daughter might not come again. Her former
visit had done her so much good, and now the
beautiful weather was calling her out into the
country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that
Indian summer should ''waste its sweetness on the
desert air of the city.''
''What do you sayf' Mrs. Trent had asked
''Why — why — of course, mother, if she doesn't
make too much work for you."
And so Mildred had received the invitation that
she was very welcome to come to Greenstreet and
stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she would
be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She
would draw and paint, and then in the soft
evening dusk she would play some of those ex-
quisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not
like people to speak of her beloved instrument as
a fiddle, and he remembered how she had chas-
tised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she
would again enter into their daily life. Her lady-
like ways, her sweet smile, her golden beauty
Avould again glorify their humble home. Why,
if she came often enough and remained long
enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow,
as she had threatened to do. At the thought,
the boy on the grass by the nodding hprses,
laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but
whether he preferred the somewhat nervous happi-
ness of Mildred's presence or the quiet longing
happiness of her absence, he could not tell.
The plain truth of the matter was, that Dorian
had fallen deeply in love with Mildred. This
statement may be scoffed at by some people whose
eyes have been dimmed by age so that they can-
not see back into that time of youth when they
also were ''trailing clouds of glory'' from their
heavenly home. There is nothing more whole-
somely sweet than this first boy and girl affec-
tion. It is clean and pure and undefiled by the
many worldly elements which often enter into
the more mature lovemaking.
Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's
life did not differ from like incidents in many
lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian
at this time never admitted to himself that he was
in love with the girl. He sensed very well that
she was far above him in every way. The thought
that she might ever become his wife never ob-
tained foothold in him more than for a fleeting
moment: that was impossible, then why think of
it. But there could be no harm in loving her as
he loved his mother, or as he loved the flowers.
th# clear-flowing water, the warm sun and the
blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up
to her as he did to the stars at night. He could
also strive to rise to her level, if that were possi-
ble. He was going to the High school the coming
winter, then perhaps to the University. He could
get to know as much of school learning as she,
anyway. He never would become a painter of
pictures or a musician, but surely there were other
things which he could learn which would be
There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still
lay on the grass, his one-time effort to ask a girl
to a dance. He recalled what care he had taken
in washing and combing and dressing, how he
had finally cut cross-lots to the girl's home for
fear of being seen, for surely he had thought,
everybody must know what he was up to! — how
he had lingered about the back door, and had at
last, when the door opened, scudded back home as
fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the
finest girl he had ever seen was chumming with
him, and he was not afraid, that is, not very much
When Mildred had packed up to go home on the
occasion of her former visit she had invited Mrs.
Trent to take her pick of her drawings for her
'*A11 but this,'' Mildred had said. ^^This which
I call 'Sunset in the Marshland' I am going t©
give to Dorian."
The mother had looked over the pile of sketches.
There was a panel in crayon which the artist said
was the big cottonwood down by the Corners.
Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have
known it, but then, she added apologetically, she
never had an eye for art. There was a winter
scene where the houses were so sunk into the
earth that only the roofs were visible. (Mrs.
Trent had oftened wondered why the big slanting
roofs were the only artistic thing about a house).
Another picture showed a high, camel-backed
bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real
than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen
the bridge because of its pretty colors.
''Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?"
Mildred had asked.
They had gone into his room. Mildred had
''The only good light is on that wall.'' She
had pointed to the space occupied by Dorian *s
And so Lorna Doone had come down and
Mildred's study of the marshlands glowed with
its warmer colors in its place.
The plowboy arose from the grass. ''Get up
there," he said to his horses. "We must be
going, or there'll be very little plowing today."
Carlia Duke was the first person to greet
Mildred as she alighted at the Trent gate. Carlia
knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred
put her arm about her friend and kissed her,
somewhat to the younger girl's confused pleasure?.
The two girls went up the path to the house where
Mrs. Trent met them.
'* Where's your baggage?'' asked the mother of
the arrival, seeing she carried only a small bag
and her violin case.
*'This is all. I'm not going to paint this time —
just going to rest, mother said, so I do not need
a lot of baggage."
*'Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia.
Dinner is about ready, an' you'll stay."
By a little urging Carlia remained, and pretty
soon, Dorian came stamping in to be surprised.
''Yes; we're all here," announced Carlia, as
she tossed her black curls and laughed at hi.s
''I see you are," he replied ,as he shook hands
with Mildred. After which ceremony, it did not
just look right to slight the other girl, so he
shook hands with her also, much to her amuse-
''How do you do, Mr. Trent" she said.
"Carlia is such a tease," explained the mother,
"For which I like her," added Mildred.
"We all do. Even Dorian here, who is usually
afraid of girls, makes quite a chum of her."
"Well, we're neighbors," justified the girl.
After dinner Carlia took Mildred home with
her. It was not far, just around the low ridge
which hid the house from view. There Mildred
met Pa Duke, Ma Duke and Will Duke, Carlia's
older brother. Pa Duke was a hard-working
farmer, Ma Duke was likewise a hard-working
farmer's wife, and Will Duke should have been a
hard-working farmer's boy, but he was somewhat a
failure, especially regarding the hard work part.
Carlia, though so young, was already a hard-
working farmer girl, with no chance of escape,
as far as she could see, from the hard-working
part. The Duke house, though clean and roomy,
lacked the dainty home touches which mean so
much. There were no porch, no lawn, no trees.
The home was bare inside and out.
In deference to the ^'company" Carlia was per-
mitted to *' visit'' with her friend that afternoon;
Apparently, these two girls had very little in
common, but when left to themselves they found
many mutual interests.
Toward the close of the afternoon, Dorian ap-
peared. He found the girls out in the yard,
Carlia seated on the topmost pole of the corral
fence, and Mildred standing beside her.
'^ Hello girls," Dorian greeted. ''I've come to
give you an invitation."
''What, a party?" exclaimed Carlia, jumping
down from her perch.
"Not a dancing party, you little goose — just
a surprise party."
"On Uncle Zed."
"Uncle Zed. 0, shucks!"
''Well, of course, you do not have to go,'' said
''I think you're mean. I do want to go if
Mildred is going."
''I don't know Uncle Zed," said Mildred, '*but
if Mrs. Trent and Dorian wish me to go, I shall
be pleased; and of course, you will go with us."
''She's invited," repeated Dorian. ''It's Uncle
Zed's seventy-fifth birthday. Mother keeps track
of them, the only one who does, I guess, for he
doesn't do it himself. We're just going down to
visit with him this evening. He's a very fini>
old man, is Uncle Zed," this last to Mildred.
"Is he your uncle?"
"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no
one in particular. He's all by himself, and has
Just before the dusk of the evening, the little
party set out for the home of Zedekiah Manning,
generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He
lived about half a mile down the road in a two-
roomed log house which had a big adobe chimney
on one side. His front yard was abloom with
the autumn flowers. The path leading to his
door was neatly edged by small cobble stones.
Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and
climbed over the wall nearly to the low roof.
Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well,
well," he exclaimed, "come right in. I'll light
the lamp." Then he assisted them to find seats.
Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom
she found to be a little frail old man with clean
white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face.
He sat dovm with his company and nibbed his
hands in a way which implied: '^And what does
all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall,
back of his own chair, was nearly covered with
books, and a number of volumes lay on the table.
The room was furnished for the simple needs of
the lone occupant. A fire smouldered in the open
'* Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?"
inquired Mrs. Trent.
'* Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my
memory is not so good as it used to be. ' ^
''Your memory never was good regarding the
day of the year you were born."
''Day when I was born? What, has my birth-
day come around again? Well, sure; but I had
quite forgotten. How these birthdays do pile up
"How old are you today?" asked Dorian.
"How old? Let me see. I declare, I must be
"Isn't he a funny man," whispered Carlia to
Mildred, who appeared not to hear the comment,
so interested was she in the old man.
"And so youVe come to celebrate," went on
Uncle Zed, "come to congratulate me that I am
one year nearer the grave."
"Now, Uncle Zed, you know-—"
"Tes; I know; forgive me for teasing; I know
why you come to wish me well. It is that I have
kept the faith one year more, and that I am twelve
months nearer my heavenly reward. That's it,
Uncle Zed pushed his glasses up on his fore-
head to better see his company, especially Mildred.
Mrs. Trent made the proper introduction, then
lifted the picnic basket from the table to a corner.
'*We're just going to spend an hour or so with
you," explained Mrs. Trent. ^'We want you to
talk, Mildred to play, and then we'll have a bite
to eat. We'll just sit about your grate, and
look into the glow of the fire while you talk."
However, Dorian and Mildred were scanning the
''What's this set?" the young girl asked.
Dorian bent down to read the dim titles,
''The Millennial Star" he said.
"And here's another set."
"The Journal of Discourses" he replied.
"My, all sermons? they must be dry reading."
Uncle Zed heard their conversation, and stepped
over to them. "Are you also interested in
books?" he asked. "Dorian and I are regular
book-worms, you know."
Oh, yes, she was interested in books.
"But there are books and books, you know,"
went on Uncle Zed. "You like story books, no
doubt. So do I. There 's nothing better than a
rattling good love story, eh, young lady?"
Mildred hardly knew just how to take this re-
mark, so she did not reply.
''Here's the most wonderful love story ever
written/' He took from the shelf a very ordi-
nary looking volume, called the ''Doctrine and
Covenants." Carlia and Mrs. Trent now joined
the other three. They also were interested.
"You wouldn't be looking in the 'Doctrine and
Covenants' for love stories^ would you; but here
in the revelation on the eternity of the marriage
covenant we find that men and women, under the
proper conditions and by the proper authority,
may be united as husbands and wives, not only
for time, but for eternity. Most love stories end
when the lovers are married; but think of the
endlessness of life and love under this new and
everlasting covenant of marriage — but I mustn'^t
preach so early in the evening."
"But we like to hear it, Uncle Zed," said
"Indeed, we do," added Mildred. "Tell us
more about your books."
"Here is one of my precious volumes — Orson
Pratt's works. When I get hungry for the solid,
soul-satisfying doctrines of the kingdom, I read
Orson Pratt. Parley Pratt also is good. Here
is a book which is nearly forgotten, but which
contains beautiful presentations of the gospel,
'Spencer's Letters'. Dorian, look here." He
handed the young man a small, ancient-looking,
leather bound book. "I found it in a second-
hand store and paid fifteen cents for it. Yes,
it's a second edition of the 'Doctrine and Coven-
ants/ printed by John Taylor in Nauvooo in 1844.
The rest of my collection is familiar to you, I am
sure. Here is a complete set of the ^Contributor'
and this is my 'Era' shelf, and here are most
of the more modern church works. Let us now
go back to the fire.''
After they were again seated, Mildred asked
him if he had known Brigham Young. She always
liked to hear the pioneers talk of their experien-
''No" replied Uncle Zed, "I never met Presi-
dent Young, but I believe I know him as well as
many w^ho had that pleasure. I have read every-
thing that I could get in print which Brigham
Young ever said. I have read all his discourses
in those volumes. He was not a polished speaker,
I understand, and he did not often follow a
theme; but mixed with the more commonplace
subjects of irrigation, Indian troubles^ etc., which,
in his particular day had to be spoken of, are
some of the most profound gospel truths in any
language. Gems of thought shine from every
page of his discourses.''
Carlia was nodding in a warm corner. Uncle
Zed rambled on reminiscently until Mrs. Trent
suddenly arose, spoke sharply to Carlia, and lifted
the basket of picnic on to the table.
"We'll have our refreshments now," she said,
*'and then we must be going. Uncle Zed goes
early to bed, and so should we/'
The table was spread: roast chicken, brought by
Carlia; dainty sandwiches, made by Mildred;
apple pie from Mrs. Trent's cupboard; a jar of
apricot preserves, suggested by Dorian. Uncle
Zed asked a blessing not only on the food, but
on the kind hands which had provided it. Then
they ate heartily, and yet leaving a generous part
to be left in Uncle Zed's own cupboard. 1
Then Dorian had a presentation to make. He
took from the basket a small package, unwrapped
it, and handed a book to the man who was seventy-
five years old. ^.
''I couldn't do much by way of the eats," said
Dorian, ''so my present is this."
'' 'Drummond's Natural Law in the Spiritual
World' " read Uncle Zed. ''Why, Dorian, this is
fine of you. How could you guess my wishes so
nicely. For a long time, this is just the book I
"I'm glad. I thought you'd like it."
"Fine, fine," said the old man, fondling the
volume as he would some dear object, as indeed,
every good book was to him.
Then Mildred got out her violin, and after the
proper tuning of the strings, she placed it under
her shapely chin. She played without music some
of the simple heart melodies, and then some of the
Sunday School songs which the company softly
accompanied by words.
Carlia poked the log in the grate into a blaze,
then slyly turned the lamp wick dawn. When
detected and asked why she did that she replied :
'*I wanted to make it appear more like a picnic
party around a camj? fire in the hills/'
DORIAN'S high school days in the city be-
gan that fall, a little late because he had
so many things to set right at home; but
he soon made up the lost time, for he was a
student not afraid of hard work. He walked
back and forth the three miles. Mrs. Brown
offered him a room at her large city residence,
but he could not accept it because of his daily
home chores. However, he occasionally called on
the Brown's who tried to make him feel as much
at home as they did at Greenstreet.
Never before were days so perfect to Dorian,
never before had he so enjoyed the fleeting hours.
For the first week or two, he was a little shy, but
the meeting each morning with boys and girls of
his own age and mingling with them in their
studies and their recreations, soon taught him that
they were all very much alike, just happy, care-
free young people, most of them trying to get an
education. He soon learned, also, that he could
easily hold his own in the class work with the
brightest of them. The teachers, and students
also, soon learned to know this. Boys came to
him for help in problems, and the yonnger girls
chattered about him with laughing eyes and
tossing curls. What a wonder it was! He the
simple, plainly-dressed country boy, big and awk-
ward and ugly as he thought himself to be, be-
coming a person of some importance. And so
the days went all too swiftly by. Contrary to
his younger boyhood's experience, the closing hour
came too soon, when it was time to go home to
mother and chores and lessons.
And the mother shared the boy's happiness, for
she could see the added joy of living and working
which had come into his life by the added oppor-
tunities and new environment. He frequently dis-
cussed with his mother his lessons. She was not
well posted in the knowledge derived from
books, and sometimes she mildly resented this
newer learning which he brought into the homo
and seemed to intrude on her old-established ideas.
For instance, when the cold winter nights came,
and Dorian kept open his bedroom window, the
mother protested that he would *^ catch his death
of cold." Night air and drafts are very dan-
gerous, especially if let into one's bedroom, she held.
''But, mother, I must have air to breathe,"
said Dorian, ''and what other kind of air can I
have at night? I might store a little day-air in
my room, but I would soon exhaust its life-giving
qualities at night. You know, mother," he went
on in the assurance of his newly acquired knowl-
edge, '*I guess the Lord knew what He was about
when He enveloped the earth with air which
presses down nearly fifteen pounds to the square
inch so that it might permeate every possible nook
and corner of the globe/' Then he went on to ex-
plain the wonderful process of blood purification
in the lungs, and demonstrated to her that the
breath is continually throwing off foul matter.
He did this by breathing into a fruit jar, screwing
on the lid for a little while, and then having the
nose make the test.
''Some bed rooms IVe gone into smell just like
that," he said.
*'Here, mother is a clipping from a magazine.
'* 'Of all the marvels of God's workmanship,
none is more wondrous than the air. Think of
our all being bathed in a substance so delicate
as to be itself unperceived, yet so dense as to be
the carriage to our senses of messages from the
world about us! It is never in our way; it
does not ask notice; we only know it is there
by the good it does us. And this exquisitely soft,
pure, yielding, unseen being, like a beautiful and
beneficent fairy, brings us blessings from all
around. It has the skill to wash our blood clean
from all foulness. Its weight keeps us from
tumbling to pieces. It is a reservoir where the
waters lie stored, until they fall and gladden the
earth. It is a great-coat that softens to us the
heat of the day, and the cold of the night. It
carries sounds to our ears and smells to our
nostrils. Its movements fill Nature with ceaseless
change; and without their aid in wafting ships
over the sea, commerce and civilization would
have been scarce possible. It is of all wonders
the most wonderful.' ''
At another time when Dorian had a cold, and
consequently, a loss of appetite, his mother urged
him to eat more, saying that he must have
strength to throw off his cold.
'^What is a coldT' he smilingly asked.
'*Why, a cold is — a cold, of course, you silly
What does it do to the activities of the bodyf
I'm not a doctor; how can I tell."
''AH mothers are doctors and nurses; they do a
lot of good, and some things that are not so
good. For instance, why should I eat more when
I have a cold?" She did not reply, and so
he went on: ''The body is very much like a
stove or a furnace; it is burning material all the
time. Sometimes the clinkers accumulate and
stop the draft, both in the human as well as the
iron stove. When that happens, the sensible thing
to do is not to throw in more fuel but to clean
out the clinkers first."
"Where did you get all that wisdom, Dorian?"
"I got it from my text book on hygiene, and I
think it's true because it seems so reasonable."
"Well, last night's talk led me to believe that
you would become a philosopher; now^ the trend
is more toward the doctor; tomorrow I'll think
you are studying law."
''Oh, but we are, mother; you ought to hear
us in our civil government class. We have organ-
ized into a Congress of the United States, and we
are going to make laws.''
''You 11 be elected President, I suppose."
*'I'm one of the candidates."
"Well, my boy" she smiled happily at him, "I
hope you will be elected to every good thing, and
that you will fill evei*y post with honor ; and now,
I would like you to read to me from the 'Lady of
the Lake' while I darn your stockings. Your
father used to read the story to me a long, long
time ago, and your voice is very much like his
when 3^ou read."
And thus wdth school and home and ward duties
the winter passed. Spring called him again to
the fields to which he went with new zeal, for
life w^as opening to him in a way which life is
in the habit of doing to the young of his age.
Mildred Brown and her mother were in California.
He heard from her occasionally by way of post-
cards, and once she sent him one of her sketches
o:^^^^eaiL Carlia Duke also was not forgotten
by Mildred. Dorian and Carlia met frequently as
neighbors will do, and they often spoke of their
mutual friend. The harvest was again good that
fall, and Dorian once more took up his studies at
the high school in the city. Carlia finished the
grades as Dorian completed his second year, and
the following year Carlia walked with Dorian to
the high school. That was no great task for the
girl, now nearly grown to young womanhood, and
it was company for both of them. During these
walks Carlia had many questions to ask about
her lessons, and Dorian was always pleased to
*'I am such a dunce, *^ she would say, *'I wish
I was as smart as you.''
*'You must say 'were' when you wish. I were
as smart as you," he corrected.
''0, yes: I forgot. My, but grammar is hard,
especially to a girl which — ''
'*No — a girl who; which refers to objects and
animals, who to persons."
Carlia laughed and swung her books by the
strap. Dorian was not carrying them that day.
Sometimes he was absentminded regarding the
The snow lay hard packed in the road and it
creaked under their feet. Carlia 's"^ cheeks glowed
redder than ever in contact with the keen ^vinter
air. They walked on in silence for a time.
''Say, Dorian, why do you not go and see
Mildred?" asked Carlia, not looking at lumV 'but
rather at the eastern mountains.
"Why? Is she not well?"
"She is never well now. She looks bad to
When did you see her?"
*'Last Saturday. I called at the house, and she
asked about you — ^Poor girl!"
"What do you mean by that?"
''You are very smart in some things, but are
a stupid dunce in other things. Mildred is like
an angel both in looks and — everything. I wish
I was — ^were half as good."
''But how am I such a dunce, Carlia?"
"In not seeing how much Mildred thinks of
"Thinks of me? Mildred?"
"She just loves you."
Carlia still looked straight ahead as though
fearful to see the agitation she had brought to the
young man; but he looked at her, with cheeks
still aflame. He did not understand Carlia. Why
had she said that? Was she just teasing him?
But she did not look as if she were teasing.
Silently they walked on to the school house door.
But Dorian could not forget what Carlia had
said. All day it intruded into his lessons. "She
said she loves me" he whispered to his heart only.
Could it be possible? Even if she did, what final
good would come of it? The distance between
them was still too great, for he was only a
poor farmer boy. Dear Mildred — ^his heart did
not chide him for thinking that — so frail, so
weak, so beautiful. What if she — should die!
Dorian was in a strange state of mind for a
number of days. He longed to visit the Brown
home, yet he could not find excuse to go. He
could not talk to anybody about what was in his
mind and heart, not even to his mother with
whom he always shared his most hidden thoughts.
One evening he visited Uncle Zed, ostensibly, to
talk about a book. Uncle Zed was deep in the
study of ''Natural Law in the Spiritual World''
and would have launched into a discussion of
what he had found, but Dorian did not respond;
he had other thoughts in mind.
''Uncle Zed,'' he said, "how can I become some-
thing else than a farmer?"
The old man looked questioningly at his young
friend. "What's the matter with being a farmer?"
"Well, a farmer doesn't usually amount to
much, I mean in the eyes of the world. Farmers
seem to be in a different class from merchants,
for example, or from bankers or other more
"Listen to me, Dorian Trent." Uncle Zed laid
down his book as if he had a serious task before
him. "Let me tell you something. If you havn't
done so before, begin now and thank the Lord
that you began life on this globe of ours as a
farmer's child and boy. Whatever you do or be-
come in the future, you have made a good be
ginning. You have already laid away in the
way of concepts, we may say, a generous store of
nature's riches, for you have been in close touch
with the earth, and the life which teems in soil
and air and the waters. Pity the man whose
childish eyes looked out on nothing but paved
streets and brick walls or whose young ears heard
nothing but the harsh rumble of the city, for his
early conceptions from which to interpret his later
life is artificial and therefore largely untrue."
Uncle Zed smiled up into the boy's face as if
to ask, Do you get that? Dorian would have to
have time to assimilate the idea; meanwhile, he
had another question:
''Uncle Zed, why are there classes among mem-
bers of our Church?"
''Classes? What do you mean?"
"Well, the rich do not associate with the
poor nor the learned with the unlearned. I
know, of course, that this is the general rule in
the world, but I think it should be different in
"Yes; it ought to be and is different. There
are no classes such as you have in mind in the
Church, even though a few unthinking memberc>
seem to imply it by their actions; but there is no
real class distinction in the Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-day Saints, only such that are based
on the doing of the right and the wrong. Char-
acter alone is the standard of classification."
"Yes,^I see that that should be true."
"It is true. Let me illustrate: The presiding
authority in the Church is not handed down from
father to son, thus fostering an aristocratic ten-
dency; also this authority is so wide-spread that
anything like a "ruling family" would be im-
possible. In a town where I once lived, the
owner of the bank and the town blacksmith were
called on missions. They both were assigned to
the same field, and the blacksmith was appointed
to preside over the banker. The banker submitted
willingly to be directed in his missionary labors
by one who, judged by worldly standards, was
far beneath him in the social scale. I know a
shoemaker in the city who is a teacher in the
theological class of his ward, whose membership
consists of merchants, lawyers, doctors, and the
like. Although he is poor and earns his living
by mending shoes, he is greatly respected for his
goodness and his knowledge of Scriptural subjects
'^So you think — that a young fellow might —
that it would not be wrong— or foolish for a poor
man to think a lot of — of a rich girl, for in-
stance. ' '
Uncle Zed peered at Dorian over his glasses.
The old man took him gently by the shoulders.
Ah, that's what's back of all this, he thought;
but what he said was:
''My boy, Emerson said, 'Hitch your wagon to
a star,' and I will add, never let go, although
the rocks in the road may bump you badly. Why,
there's nothing impossible for a young man like
you. You may be rich, if you want to; I expect
to see you learned; and the Priesthood which you
have is your assurance, through your dilligence
and faithfulness, to any heights. Yes, my boy;
go ahead — love Mildred Brown all you want to;
she's fine, but not a bit finer than you/'
'*0h, Uncle Zed/' Dorian somewhat protested;
but, nevertheless, he went home that evenyig with
his heart singing.
SOME days later word came to Mrs. Trent that
Mildred was very ill. ^*Call on them after
school/' she said to Dorian, ^'to see just how
she is, and ask Mrs. Brown if I can do anything
Dorian did as he was directed. He went around
to the back door for fear he might disturb the
sick girl. Mrs. Brown herself, seeing him coming,
met him and let him in.
Yes, Mildred was very ill. Mrs. Brown waa
plainly worried. Could he or his mother do any-
thing to help? No; only to lend their faith and
prayers. Would he come into the sick room to
see her for a few minutes? Yes, if she desired it.
Dorian followed the mother into the sick room,
Mildred lay well propped up by pillows in a
bed white as snow. She was thinner and
paler than ever, eyes bigger, hair heavier and
more golden. When she saw Dorian, she smiled
and reached out her hand, letting it lie in the big
''How are youT' she said, very low.
''Well and fine, and how are you?'^
She simply shook her head gently and closed
her eyes, seeming content to touch the strong
young manhood beside her. The mother went
quietly from the room, and all became quite still.
Speech was difficult for the sick girl, and equally
hard for the young man. But he looked freely
at the angel-like face on the pillow without rebuke |
from the closed eyes. He glanced about the room,
beautifully clean and airy. All her books and
her workmg material had been carried away as if
she were through with them for good. In a corner
on an easel stood an unfinished copy of "Sun-
set in Marshland.'' Dorian's eyes rested for a
moment on the picture, and as he again looked at
the girl, he saw a smile pass over the marble-
That was all. Presently, he left the room, and
without many words, the house.
Each day after that Dorian managed to learn
of the girl's condition, though he did not go into
the sick chamber. On the sixth day word came
to Dorian at school that Mildred was dying. He
looked about for Carlia to tell her, but she was
nowhere to be found. Dorian could not go home.
Mildred was dying! The one girl — yes, the only
one in all the world who had looked at him with
her heart in the look, was leaving the world, and
him. "Why could she not live, if only for hid
sake? He sat in the school room until all had
gone, and he was alone with the janitor. His
open book was still before him. but he saw not
the printed page. Then the short winter dav
closed. Dusk came on. The janitor had finished
sweeping the room and was ready to leave.
Dorian gathered up his books, put on his overcoat^
and went out. Mildred was dying! Perhaps she
was about to begin 'that great journey into the
unknown. Would she be afraid? Would she not
need a strong hand to help her? "Mildred," he
He walked on slowly up the street toward the
Brown's. Darkness came on. The light gleamed
softly through the closed blinds of the house
Everything was very still. He did not try to be
admitted, but paced back and forth on the other
side of the street. Back and forth he went for a
long time, it seemed. Then the front door opened,
and the doctor passed out. Mildred must either
be better or beyond all help. He wanted to ask
the doctor, but he could not bring himself to
intercept him. The house remained quiet. Some
of the lights were extinguished. Dorian crossed
the street. He must find out something. He
stood by the gate, not knowing what to do. The
door opened again, and a woman, evidently a
neighbor, came out. She saw the young man and
"Pardon me," said Dorian, "but tell me how
Mildred— Miss Brown is?"
"She just died."
The woman went into a nearby house. Dorian
moved away, benumbed with the despair which
sank into his heart at the final setting of his sun.
Dead! Mildred was dead! He felt the night
wind blow cold down the street, and he saw
the storm clouds scudding along the distant sky.
In the deep blue directly above him a star shone
brightly, but it only reminded him of what Uncle
Zed had said about hitching to a star; yes, but
what if the star had suddenly been taken from
A form of a girl darted across the street to-
ward him. He stopped and saw that it was
''Dorian'' she cried, "how is she?"
"She has just died."
"Dead! 0, dear," she wailed.
They stood there under the street light, the
girl looking with great pity into the face of the
young man. She was only a girl, and not a very
wise girl, but she saw how he suffered, and her
heart went out to his heart. She took his hand and
held it firmly within her warmer grasp; and by
that simple thing the young man seemed again
to get within the reach of human sympathy. Then
they walked on without speaking, and she led
him along the streets and on to the road which
led to Greenstreet.
"Come on, Dorian, let's go home," she said.
"Yes; let's go home, Carlia." /
THE death of Mildred Brown affected Dorian
Trent most profoundly. Not that he dis-
played any marked outward signs of his
feelings, but his very soul was moved to its
depths, sometimes as of despair, sometimes as of
resentment. Why, he asked himself, should God
send — he put it this way — send to him this beauti-
ful creature who filled his heart so completely,
why hold her out to him as if inviting him to
take her, and then suddenly snatch her away out
of his life — out of the life of the world! .
For many days Dorian went about as if in a
pained stupor. His mother, knowing her boy,
tried in a wise way to comfort him; but it was
not altogether a success. His studies were neg-
lected, and he had thoughts of quitting school
altogether; but he did not do this. He dragged
through the few remaining days until spring,
when he eagerly went to work on the open
reaches of the farm, where he was more away
from human beings and nearer to that something
in his heart. He worked long and hard and faith-
fully that spring.
On the upper bank of the canal, where the sage-
brush stood untouched, Dorian that summer found
the first sego blossoms. He had never observed
them so closely before nor seen their real beauty.
How like Mildred they were! He gathered a
bouquet of them that Saturday afternoon as he
went home, placed them in a glass of water, and
then Sunday afternoon he wrapped them in a
damp newspaper and took the bouquet with him
to town. His Sunday trips to the city were usu-
ally for the purpose of visiting Mildred's grave.
The sun shone warm that day from a blue sky
as Dorian came slowly and reverently to the
plot where lay all that was earthly of one whom
he loved so well. The new headstone gleamed in
white marble and the young grass stood tender
and green. Against the stone lay a bunch of
withered wild roses. Someone had been there
before him that day. Whom could it be? Her
mother was not in the city, and who else would
remember the visit af the angel-being who had
returned to her eternal home? A pang shot
through his heart, and he was half tempted to
turn without placing his own tribute on the
grave, then immediately he knew the thought was
foolish. He took off the wrapping and placed
his fresher flowers near the more withered ones.
Later that summer, he learned only incidently
that it had been Carlia who had been before him
During those days, Carlia kept out of Dorian's
way as much as possible. She even avoided
walking to and from school with him. He was
so absentminded even with her that she in time
came to resent it in her feelings. She could not
understand that a big, very-much-alive boy should
have his mind so fixed on a dead girl that he
should altogether forget there were living ones
about, especially one, Carlia Duke.
One evening Dorian met Uncle Zed driving
his cow home from the pasture, and the old man
invited the younger man to walk along with
him. Dorian always found Uncle Zed's company
^'Why haven't you come to me with your trou-
ble?" abruptly asked Uncle Zed.
Dorian started, then hung his head.
^*We never have any unshared secrets, you
know, and I may have been able to help you."
*'I couldn't talk to anybody."
'*No; I suppose not."
The cow was placed in the corral, and then
Uncle Zed and Dorian sat down on a grassy bank.
The sun was painting just such a picture of the
marshlands as Dorian knew so well.
'^But I can talk to you" continued the old man
as if there had been no break in his sentences.
'^ Death, I know, is a strange and terrible thing,
for youth; when you get as old as I, I hope you
will look on death as nothing more than a re-
lease from mortality, a moving from one sphere
to another, a step along the eternal line of pro-
gress. I suppose that it is just as necessary that
we pass out of the world by death as that we
enter it by birth; and I further suppose that the
terror with which death is vested is for the
purpose of helping us to cling to this earth-life
until our mission here is completed/*
Dorian did not speak; his eyes were on the
*' Imagine, Dorian, this worlds just as it is, with
all its sin and misery and without any death.
What would happen? We would all, I fear, be-
come so self-centered, so hardened in selfishness
that it would be difficult for the gentle power of
love to reach us; but now there is hardly a
family that has not one or more of its members
on the other side. And these absent loved ones
are anchors to our souls, tied to us by the never-
ending cords of love and affection. You, your-
self, my boy, never have had until now many
interests other than those of this life ; now your
interests are broadened to another world, and
that 's something worth while .... Now, come
and see me often." They arose, each to go to
''I will, Uncle Zed. Thank you for what you
Dorian completed his four years high school.
Going to the University might come later, but now
he was moved by a spirit of activity to do bigger
things with his farm, and to enlarge it, if possible.
About this time, dry-farming had taken the atten-
tion of the farmers in his locality, and many of
them had procured lands on the sloping foothills
Dorian, with a number of other young men had
gone up the nearby canyon to the low hills of
the valley beyond and had taken up lands. That
first summer Dorian spent much of his time in
breaking up the land. As timber was not far
away, he built himself a one-roomed log house and
some corrals and outhouses. A mountain stream
rushed by the lower corner of his farm, and its
wild music sang him to sleep when he spent the
night in the hills. He furnished his ^^ summer
residence'' with a few simple necessities so that
he could live there a number of days at a time.
He minded not the solitude. The wild odorous
verdure of the hills, the cool breezes, the song
of the distant streams, the call of the birds, all
seemed to harmonize with his own feelings at that
time. He had a good kerosene lamp, and at nights
when he was not too tired, he read. On his
visits to the city he usually had an eye for book
bargains, and thus his board shelving came to be
quite a little library. He had no method in his
collecting, no course of connected study. At one
time he would leisurely read one of Howell's
easy-going novels, at another time he would be
kept wide-eyed until midnight with '^Lorna
Doone" or with '^Ben Hur."
Dorian had heard of Darwin, of Huxley, of In-
gersol and of Tom Payne, but he had never read
anything but selections from these writers. Now
he obtained a copy of the *' Origin of Species'*
and a book by Ingersol. These he read carefully.
Darwin's book was rather heavy, but by close
application, the young student thought he learned
what the scientist was '^driving at.'' This book
disturbed him somewhat. There seemed to be
much truth in it, but also some things which did
not agree with what he had been taught to be
true. In this he realized his lack of knowledge.
More knowledge must clear up any seeming con-
tradiction, he reasoned. Ingersol was more read-
able, snappy, witty, hitting the Bible in a fearless
way. Dorian had no doubt that all of Inger-
sol's points could be answered, as he himself
could refute many of them.
One day as Dorian was browsing as usual in a
book store he came across a cheap copy of Drum-
mond's '^ Natural Law in the Spiritual World,"
the book which he had given Uncle Zed. As he
wanted a copy himself, he purchased this one and
took it with him to his cabin in the hills.
Immediately he was interested in the book, and
he filled its pages with copious notes and marks
It was Sunday afternoon in mid-summer at
Greenstreet. The wheat again stood in the shock.
The alfalfa waved in scented purple. Dorian and
the old philosopher of Greenstreet sat in the shade
of the Cottonwood and looked out on the farm
scene as they talked.
''I've also been reading 'Natural Law in the
Spiritual World' " said Dorian.
''Good/' replied Uncle Zed. "I was going to
lend you my copy, so we could talk about it in-
telligently. What message have you found in it
Yes; every book should have a message and
should deliver it to the reader. Drummond's
book thundered a message to me, but it came too
late. I am old, and past the time when I could
heed any such call. If I were young, if I -if I
were like you, Dorian, you who have life before
you, what might not I do, with the help of the
"What, Uncle Zed?"
"Drummond was a clergyman and a professor
of natural history and science. As such, he was
a student of the laws of God as revealed both
through the written word of irupiration and in
nature about him. In his book he aims to proves
that the spiritual world is controlled by the same;
laws which operate in the natural wold; and as'
you perhaps discovered in your reading, he comes
very nearly proving his claim. He presents some
wonderfully interesting analogies. Of course,
much of his theology is of the perverted sectarian
kind, and therein lies the weakness of his argu-
ment. If he had had the clear truth of the re-
stored gospel, how much brighter would his facts
have been illumed, how much stronger would
have been his deductions. Why, even I with my
limited scientific knovs^ledge can set him right in
many places. So I say, if I were but a young
man like you, do you know what I'd dof
What?'' again questioned Dorian.
I would devote all my mind, might and
strength to the learning of truth, of scientific
truth. I would cover every branch of science pos-
sible in the limits of one life, especially the
natural sciences. Then with my knowledge of
the gospel and the lamp of inspiration which the
priesthood entitles me to, I could harmonize the
great body of truth coming from any and every
source. Dorian, what a life work that would be!"
The old man looked smilingly at his companion
with a strange, knowing intimation. He spoke of
himself, but he meant that Dorian should take the
suggestion. Dorian could pick up his beautiful
dream and make it come true. Dorian, with life
and strength, and a desire for study and truth
could accomplish this very desirable end. The old
man placed his hand lovingly on the young man's
shoulder, as he continued:
''You are the man to do this, Dorian — you, iiot
''I— Uncle Zed, do you believe that?"
''I do. Listen, my boy. I see you looking over
the harvested field. It is a fine work you are
doing; thousands can plant and harvest year
after year; but few there are who can and will
devote their lives to the planting of faith and the
nourishing and the establishing of faith in the
hearts of men; and that's what we need now to
properly answer the Lord's cry that when He
cometh shall He find faith on the earth ? . . . . Let
the call come to you — but there, in the Lord's
own good time. Com^ into the house. I havd
a new book to show you, also I have a very
delicious cherry pie."
They went into the house together, where they
inspected both book and pie. Dorian weakly
objected to the generous portion which was cut
for him, but Uncle Zed explained that the process
of division not only increased the number of pieces
of pie, but also added to its tastiness. Dorian led
his companion to talk about himself.
''Yes," he said in reply to a question, ''I was
born in England and brought up in the Wesleyan
Methodist church. I was a great reader ever
since I can remember. I read not onl7 history
and some fiction, but even the dry-as-dust sermons
were interesting to me. But I never seemed satis-
fied. The more I read, the deeper grew the
mysteries of life. Nowhere did I find a clear,
comprehendible statement of what I, an entity
with countless other entities, was doing here.
Where had I come from, where was 1 going? I
visited the churches within my reach. I heard the
preachers and read the philosophers to obtain, if
possible, a clue to the mystery of life. I studied,
and prayed, and went about seeking, but never
''But you did find the truth at last?"
''Yes; thank the Lord. I found the opening
in the darkness, and it came through the simple,
humble, and not very learned elders of the Church
of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."
"What is the principle trouble with all this
learning of the world that it does not lead to the
"The world's ignorance of God. Eternal life
consists in knowing the only true God, and the
world does not know Him; therefore, all their
systems of religion are founded on a false basis.
That is the reason there is so much uncertainty
and floundering when philosophers and religionists
try to make a known truth agree with their con-
ceptions of God."
"Explain that a little more to me, Uncle Zed."
"Some claim that Nature is God, others that
God only manifests Himself through nature. I
read this latter idea many places. For instance.
Pope says :
" 'All are but parts of one stupendous whole
Whose body nature is, and God the soul.'
' ' Also Tennyson :
'The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills
Are not these, soul, the vision of Him who
Speak to Him there, for He hears, and spirit with
spirit can meet.
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands
'^TMs, no doubt, is beautiful poetry, but it telli
only a part of the truth. God, by His Spirit is,
and can be all the poet here describes. 'Whither
s^ shall I go from thy spirit ? or whither shall I flee
from thy presence?' exclaims the Psalmist. 'In
him we live and move and have our being' de-
clares Paul; but these statements alone are not
enough for our proper understanding of the
subject. We try to see God behind the veil of
nature, in sun and wind and flower and fruit;
but there is something lacking. Try now to form-
ulate some distinct idea of what this universal and
almighty force back of nature is. We are told
that this force is God, whom we must love and
s^ worship and serve. We want the feeling of near
ness to satisfy the craving for love and protec-
tion, but our intellect and our reason must also
be somewhat satisfied. We must have some
object on which to rest — we cannot always be
floating about unsuspended in time and space.
''Then there ij^ some further confusion: Chris-
tian philosophers have tried to personify this 'soul
of the universe,' for God, they say, thinks and
feels and knows. They try to get a personality
without form or bounds or dimentions, but it all
ends in vagueness and confusion. As for me, and
I think I am not so different from other men, —
for me to be able to think of God, I must have
some image of Him. I cannot think of love or
good, or power or glory in the ^abstract. These
must be expressed to me by symbols at least aa
eminating from^ or inherent in, or exercised by
some person. Love cannot exist alone: there must
be one who loves and one who is being loved.
Gk)d is love. That means to me that a person, a
beautiful, glorified, allwise, benevolent being exer-
cises that divine principle which is shed forth on
you and me.
''Now, if the world would only leave all this
metaphysical meandering and come back to the
simple truth, what a clearing of mists there would
be! All their philosophies would have a solid
basis if they would only accept the truth revealed
anew to us through the Prophet Joseph Smith that
God is one of a race, the foremost and first, if
you wish it, but still one of a race of beings
who inhabit the universe; that we humans are
His children, begotten of Him in the pre-mortal
world in His image; that we are on the upward
path through eternity, following Him who has
gone before and has marked out the way; that if
we follow, we shall eventually arrive at the point
where He now is. Ignorance of these things is
what I understand to be ignorance of God."
'*In England I lost my wife and two children.
The gospel came to me shortly after, I am sure,
to comfort me in the depths of my despair. Not
one church on earth that I knew of, Catholic or
Protestant, would hold out any hope of my ever
being reunited with wife and children as such.
There is no family life in heaven, they teach. At
that time I went about listening to the preachers,
and I delved into books. I made extensive copy-
ings in my note books. I have them yet, and some
day when you are interested I will show them t*
'*I am interested now/' said Dorian.
''But I'm not going to talk to you longer on
this theme, even though it is Sunday and time for
sermonizing. I'm going to meeting, where you
also ought to go. You are not attending as
regularly as you should."
''No, but I've been very busy."
"No excuse that. There is danger in remain-
ing away too long from the established sources
of spiritual inspiration and uplift, especially when
one is reading Ingersol and Tom Paine. I have
no fault to find with your ambition to get ahead
in the world, but with it 'remember thy creator
in the days of thy youth.' Are you neglecting
"No; I think not. Uncle Zed; but what do you
mean about mother?"
"You are all she has. Are you making her days
happy by your personal care and presence. Are
you giving of yourself to her?"
"Well, perhaps I am not so considerate as I
might be; I am away quite a lot; thank you for
calling my attention to it."
"Are you neglecting anybody else?"
"Not that I know.''
'*6ood. Now I must clear away my table and
get ready for meeting. You'll go with me.''
**I can't. I haven't my Sunday clothes."
'^The Lord will not look at your clothes."
''No; but a lot of people will."
''We go to meeting to worship the Lord, not
to be looked at by others. Go home and put on
your Sunday best; there is time." The old
man was busy between table and cupboard as he
talked. ''Have you seen Carlia lately?"
"No," replied Dorian.
"The last time she was here I thought she was
a little peaked in the face, for you know she has
such a rosy, roly-poly one."
"Is that so? She comes to see you, then?"
"Yes; oftener than you do."
"I never meet her here."
"No; she manages that, I surmise."
"What do you mean?"
"I tell you Carlia is a lovely girl," continued
Uncle Zed, ignoring his direct question. "Have
you ever eaten butter she has churned?"
"Not that I know."
"She used to bring me a nice pat when my
cow was dry; and bread of her own baking
too, about as good as I myself make." He
chuckled as he wiped the last dish and placed
it neatly in the rack.
Dorian arose to go. "Remember what I have
told you this evening" said Uncle Zed. The old
man from behind his window watched his young
friend walk leisurely along the road until he
reached the cross-lots path which led to the Duke
home. Here he saw him pause, go on again,
pause once more, then jump lightly over the
fence and strike out across the field. Uncle Zed
then went on finishing his preparations for meet-
As Dorian walked across the field, he did think
of what Uncle Zed had said to him. Dorian had
built his castles, had dreamed his dreams; but
never before had the ideas presented to him by
Uncle Zed that afternoon ever entered in them.
The good old man had seemed so eager to pass
on to the young man an unfulfilled work, yes, a
high, noble work. Dorian caught a glimpse of the
greatness of it and the glory of it that afternoon,
and his soul was thrilled. Was he equal to such
a task? He had wanted to become a success-
ful farmer, then his vision had gone on to the
teaching profession; but beyond that he had not
ventured. He was already well on the way to
make a success of his farms. He liked the work.
He could with pleasure be a farmer all his life.
But should a man's business be all of life? Dorian
realized, not of course in its fuller meaning, that
the accumulating of worldly riches was only a
means to the accomplishing of other and greater
ends of life; and here was before him something
worthy of any man's best endeavors. Here was a
life's work which at its close would mean some-
thing to him and to the w^orld. With these thoughts
in his mind he stepped up to the rear of the Duke
place where he saw someone in the corral with
the cows, busy with her milking.
HELLO, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he
stopped at the yard and stood leaning
against the fence.
Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As
she straightened, with a three-legged stool in one
hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she
looked toward Dorian. '^0, is that you? You
'*A stranger coming so suddenly.''
The young man laughed. ''Nearly through?"
''Just one more — ^Brindle, the kickey one."
"Aren't you afraid of her?"
Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beauti-
ful white teeth. Her red cheeks were redder than
ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her
shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the
young man noticed, though she was still plump
''My buckets are full, and Til have to take
them to the house before I can finish, '^ she said.
''You stay here until I come back — if you want
''I don't want to — here, let me carry them.''
He took the pails from her hand, and they went
to the house together.
The milk was carried into the kitchen where
Mrs. Duke was busy with pots and pans. Mr.
Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing
touches to his hair. He was dressed for meeting.
As he heard rather than saw his daughter enter, he
''Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?"
''Not yet," she replied.
"Well, don't forget — and say, you'd better give
a little new milk to the calf. It's not getting
along as well as it should — and, if you have time
before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses."
"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm
not going to meeting, I'll have plenty of time."
"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand,
and saw Dorian. "Hello, Dorian," he greeted,
"you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to
meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late
if we don't hurry."
"Father, I told you I'm not going. I— "she
hesitated as if not quite certain of her words —
"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows,
and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are
the pigs and the calves and the horses to feed.
But 111 not keep Dorian. You had better go
with father'' — this to the j'-oung man who still
stood by the kitchen door.
*' Leave the rest of the chores until after meet-
in V' suggested the father, somewhat reluctantly,
to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's presence.
^^I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian.
^^I'm not dressed for it, so I'll keep Carlia com-
pany, if you or she have no objections."
'^Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you
to miss your meetin's"
'^We'll be good," laughed Dorian.
'^Come, father," the mother prompted, ^^you
know I can't walk fast in this hot weather."
Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian
went back to the corral.
'^Let me milk," offered Dorian.
'^No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over
'*0, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the
girl finish her milking. He again carried the
milk back; he also took the **slop" to the pigs
and threw the hay to the horses, while the girl
gave the new milk to the butting calf ; then back to
the house where they strained the milk. Then the
young man was sent into the front room while the
girl changed from work to Sunday attire.
The front room was very hot and uncomfort-
able. The young man looked about on the fam-
iliar scene. There were the same straiofht-backed
chairs, the same homemade carpet, more faded and
threadbare than ever, the same ugly enlarged
photographs within their massive frames which
the enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke.
There was the same lack of books or music or
anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood
and looked about, there came to him more forcibly
than ever the barrenness of the room and of the
house in general. True, his own home was very
humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and
refinement about it. The Duke home had always
impressed him as being cold and cheerless
and ugly. There were no protecting porches, no
lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard had crept
close up to the house. It was a place to work.
The eating and the sleeping were provided, so that
work could be done, farm and kitchen work with
their dirt and litter. The father and the mother
and the daughter were slaves to work. Only in
work did the parents companion with the
daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly
those who came to talk about cattle and crops
As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and
loving; but her sordid environment seemed to be
cnishing her. At times she struggled to get out
from under; but there seemed no way, so she
gradually gave in to the inevitable. She became
resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes frequent-
ly flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in
physical strength and be«utr, these nnfortnnate
traits of character became more pronounced. The
budding womanhood which should have been care-
fully nurtured by the right kind of home and
neighborhood was often left to develop in wild
and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood
in that front room awaiting her had only a dim
conception of all this.
Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She
had on a white dress and had placed a red rose
in her hair.
''0, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight
''What's the matter?'' she asked.
'^Here you go dolling up, and look at me."
''You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly
stuffy in here."
Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he
turned and stood looking at the girl before him.
It seemed to him that he had never seen her so
grown-up and so beautiful.
"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he
'* While you have been away growing up too."
''It's the long dress, isn't it?"
"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitch-
ing hay." She gave a toss to her head and held
out her roughened red hands as proof of her as-
sertion. He stepped closer to her as if to examine
them more carefully, but she swiftly hid them
behind her back. The rose, loosened from the
tossing head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picke'l
it up. He sniffed at it then handed it to her.
''Where did you get it?" he asked.
She reddened. ''None of your — Say, sit down,
Dorian seated himself on the sofa and invited
her to sit by him, but she took a chair by the
"You're not very neighborly," he said.
"As neighborly as you are," she retorted.
"What's the matter with you, Carlia?"
"Nothing the matter with me. I'm the same;
only I must have grown up, as you say. ' '
A sound as of someone driving up the road
came to them through the open door. Carlia
nervously arose and listened. She appeared to
be frightened, as she looked out to the road
without wanting to be seen. A light wagon
rattled by, and the girl, somewhat relieved, went
back to her chair.
"Isn't it warm in here?" she asked.
"It's warm everywhere."
"I can't stay here. Let's go out — for a walk."
' ' All right — come on. "
They closed the door, and went out at the rear.
He led the way around to the front, but Carlia
"Let's go down by the field," she said. "The
road is dusty."
The day was closing with a clear sky. A Sun-
day calm rested over meadow and field, as the
two strolled down by the ripening wheat. The
girl seemed uneasy until the house was well out
of sight. Then she seated herself on a grassy
bank by the willows.
''I'm tired," she said with a sigh of relief,
Dorian looked at her with curious eyes. Carlia,
grown up, w^as more of a puzzle than ever.
''You are working too hard/' he ventured.
"Hard work won't kill anybody — but it's the
"What other things?"
"The grind, the eternal grind — the dreary same-
ness of every day."
"You did not finish the high school. Why did
you quit?" ^^ i- ^ jl^Wpffl
"I had to, to save mother. Mother was not
only doing her usual house work, but nearly all
the outside choring besides. Father was away
most of the time on his dry farm too, and he's
blind to the work at home. He seems to think
that the only real work is the plowing and the
watering and the harvesting, and he would havo
let mother go on killing herself. Gee, these
men!" The girl viciously dug the heel of her
shoe into the sod.
"I'm sorry you had to quit school, Carlia."
"Sorry? I wanted to keep on more than I
ever wanted anything in my life; but — "
'^But I admire you for coming to the rescue
of your mother. That was fine of you."
"I'm glad I can do some fine thing."
Dorian had been standing. He now seated
himself on the bank beside her. The world about
them was very still as they sat for a few moments
''Listen/' said he, ''I believe Uncle Zed is
preaching. The meeting house windows are wide
open, for a wonder.
''He can preach," she remarked.
"He told me you visit him frequently."
"I do. He's the grandest man, and I like to
talk to him."
"So do I. I had quite a visit with him this
afternoon. I rather fooled him, I guess."
"He told me to go home and change my
clothes, and then go to meeting; but I came here
"Why did you do that?"
"To see you, of course."
"Pooh, as if I was anything to look at."
"Well, you are, Oarlia," and his eyes rested
steadily on her to prove his contention. "Why
didn't you want to go to meeting* this evening?"
"You heard me tell father."
"That wasn't the whole truth. I was not the
reason because you had decided not to go before
"Well — ^how do you know that? but, anyway,
it's none of your business, where I go, is it?"
She made an effort to stare him out of countew-
ance, but it ended in lowered bead and eves.
''Carlial No, of course, it isn't. Excuse me for
asking. ' '
There was another period of silence wherein
Dorian again wondered at the girl's strange be-
havior. Was he annoying her? Perhaps she did
not care to have him paying his crude attentions
to her; and yet —
**Tell me about your dry farm,'' she said.
''I've already plowed eighty acres," he in-
formed her. ''The land is rich, and I expect to
raise a big crop next year. I've quite a cosy
house, up there, not far from the creek. The
summer evenings are lovely and cool. I can't get
mother to stay over night. I wish you would
come and go with her, and stay a few days. ' '
"How could I stay away from home that long?
The heavens would fall."
"Well, that might help some. But, honestly,
Carlia, you ought to get away from this grind a
little. It's telling on you. Don't you ever get
into the citv?"
"Sometimes Saturday afternoons to deliver
butter and eggs."
"Well, some Saturday we'll go to see that
moving picture show that's recently started in
town. They say it's wonderful. I've never been.
We'll go together. What do you saj'-?"
"I would like to."
"Let's move on. Meeting is out, and the folks
are coming home."
They walked slowly back to the houie. Mr.
and Mrs. Duke soon arrived and told of the
splendid meeting they had had.
''Uncle Zed spoke," said Mr. Duke, ''and he
did well, as usual. He's a regular Orson Pratt."
"The people do not know it," added Dorian;
"perhaps their children or their children's chil-
"Well, what have you two been doing?" en-
quired the father of Carlia.
"We've just been taking a walk," answered
Dorian. "Will it be alright if Carlia and I go
to the new moving picture theatre in town some
Neither parent made any objection. They
were, in fact, glad to have this neighbor boy
show some interest in their daughter.
"Your mother was at meeting," said Mrs.
Duke; "and she was asking about you."
"Yes; I've neglected her all afternoon; so I
must be off. Good night folks."
Carlia went with him to the gate, slipping her
arm into his and snuggling closely as if to get
the protection of good comradship. The move-
ment was not lost on Dorian, but he lingered only
for a moment.
"Goodnight, Carlia; remember, some Saturday."
"I'll not forget. Goodnight" she looked fur-
tively up and down the road, then sped back into
Dorian walked on in the darkening evening.
A block Or so down the road he came on to an
automobile. No oue in Greenstreet owned one
of these machines as yet, and there were but few
in the city. As Dorian approached, he saw -x
young man working with the machinery under
the lifted hood.
''Hello/' greeted Dorian. 'Svhat's the trouble T'
'^ Damned if I know. Been stalled here for an
hour.'' The speaker straightened from his work.
His hands were grimy, and the sweat was running
down his red and angry face. He held tightly
the stump of a cigarette between his lips.
I'm sorry I can't help you," said Dorian,
but I don't know the first thing about an auto-
''Well, I thought I knew a lot, but this gets
me." He swore again, as if to impress Dorian
with the true condition of his feelings. Then he
went at the machinery again with pliers and
wrenches, after which he vigorously turned the
crank. The engine started with a wheeze and
then a roar. The driver leaped into the car and
brought the racing engine to a smoother running.
*'The cursed thing" he remarked, ''why couldn't
it have done that an hour ago. 0, say, excuse
me, have you just been at the house up the road?"
"The Duke house? yes."
"Is the old man — is Mr. Duke at home?"
"Yes; he's at home."
"Thank you." The car moved slowly up the
road until it reached the Duke gate where it
stopped; but only for a moment, for it turned and
sped with increasing hurry along the road lead
ing to the city.
Dorian stood and watched it until its red light
disappeared. He wondered why the stranger
wanted to know why Mr. Duke was at home, then
on learning that he was, why he turned about
as if he had no business with him.
Later, Dorian learned the reason.
DORIAN was twenty-one years old, and his
mother had planned a little party in honor
of the event. The invited guests were
Uncle Zed, Bishop Johnson and wife, the teacher
of the district school, and Carlia Duke. These ar-
rived during the dusk of the evening, all but Carlia.
They lingered on the cool lawn under the colored
glow of the Chinese lanterns,
Mrs. Trent realized that it would be useless to
make the party a surprise, for she had to have
Dorian's help in hanging out the lanterns, and he
would necessarily see the unusual activity in front
room and kitchen. Moreover, Dorian, unlike Uncle
Zed, had not lost track of his birthdays, and especi-
ally this one which would make him a full-fledged
citizen of these United States.
The little party chatted on general topics for
some time until Mrs. Trent, in big white apron,
announced that supper was ready, and would they
all come right in. Mrs. Trent always served her
refreshments at the regular supper time and not
near midnight, for she claimed that people of
regular habits, which her guests were, are much
better off by not having those habits broken into.
'^Are we all here?'' she asked, scanning them
as they passed in. ''AH but Carlia,'' she an-
nounced. ''Where's Carlia?"
No one knew. Someone proffered the explana-
tion that she was usually late as she had so many
chores to do, at which the Bishop's wife shook
her head knowingly, but said nothing.
"Well, she'll be along presently," said Mrs.
Trent. "Sit down all of you. Bishop, will you
ask the blessing?"
The hostess, waitress, and cook all combined in
the capable person of Mrs. Trent, sat at the table
with her party. Everything which was to be
served was on the table in plain sight, so that all
could nicely guage their eating to various dishes.
When all were well served and the eating was
well under way, Mrs. Trent said:
"Brothers and sisters, this is Dorian's birthday
party. He has been a mighty good boy, and so — "
"Mother," interrupted the young man.
"Now, you never mind — you be still. Dorian is
a good boy, and I want all of you to know it."
"We all do, Sister Trent," said the Bishop;
"and it is a good thing to sometimes tell a person
of his worthiness to his face."
"But if we say more, he'll be uncomfortable,"
remarked the mother, "so we had better change
the subject. The crops are growing, the weather
is fine, and the neighbors are all right. That dis-
poses of the chief topics of conversation, and will
give Uncle Zed a chance. He always has some-
thing worth listening to, if not up his sleeve, then
in his white old head. But do not hurry, Uncle
Zed; get through with your supper/'
The old man was a light eater, so he finished
before the others. He looked smilingly about him,
noting that those present were eager to listen. He
took from his pocket a number of slips of paper
and placed them on the table beside his plate.
Then he began to talk, the others leisurely finishing
'^The other evening,'' he said, ''Dorian and I
had a conversation which interested us very much,
and I think it would interest all of us here. 1
was telling him my experience in my search for
God and the plan of salvation, and I promised
him I would read to him some of the things I
found. Here is a definition of God which did not
help me very much." He picked up one of the
slips of paper and read: '''God is the integrated
harmony of all potentialities of good in every
actual and possible rational agent.' What do you
think of that?''
The listeners knitted their brows, but no one
spoke. Uncle Zed continued: "Well, here is '\
little more. Perhaps this will clear it up: 'The
greatest of selves, the ultimate Self of the uni-
verse, is God My God is my deeper self and
yours too. He is the self of the universe, and
knows all about it By Diety we mean the all-
controling conciousness of the universe, as well as
the unfathomable^ all unknowable, and unknow-
able abyss of being beyond'.''
Uncle Zed carefully folded his papers and placed
them back in his pocket. He looked about him,
but his friends appeared as if they had had a
volley of Greek fired at "them. ''Well" he said,
''why don't some of you say something?"
"Please pass the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent,
When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed
continued: "There is some truth in these defini-
tions. God is all that which they try to express,
and vastly more. The trouble is these men talk
about the attributes of God, and confound these |
with the being and personality of the Great Parent.
I may describe the scent of the rose, but that does
not define the rose itself. I cannot separate the
rose from its color or form or odor, any more than
I can divorce music from the instrument. These
vague and incomplete definitions have had much to
do with the unbelief in the world. Tom Paine
wrote a book which he called the 'Age of Reason'
on the premise that reason does away with God.
Isn't that it, Dorian?"
"All agnostic writers seem to think that there
is no reason in religion, and at times they come j
pretty near proving it too/' replied Dorian.
"That is because they base their arguments on
the religions of the world ; but the restored gospel
®f Jesus Christ rests largely on reason. Why, I
can prove, contrary to the generally accepted
opinion, by reason alone that there must be a
'*We shall be glad to hear it,'* said the school
teacher. The eating was about over, and so they
all sat and listened attentively.
*'We do not need to quote a word of scripture,''
continued Uncle Zed. *'A11 we need to kno\r. is
a little of the world about us, a little of the race
and its history, and a little of the other worlds
out in space, all of which is open to anybody who
will seek it. The rest is simply a little connected
thought. Reason tells me that there can be no
limits to time or space or intelligence. Time al-
ways has been, there can be no end to space, and
inelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limit-
less time and space and intelligence to work with,
what have we? The human mind, being limited,
cannot grasp the limitless; therefore, we must
make arbitrary points of beginning and ending.
Now, let us project our thought as far back into
duration as we can — count the periods by any
thinkable measurements, years, centuries, ages,
aeons, anything you please that will help. Have
we arrived at a point when there is no world, no
life, no intelligence? Certainly not. Somewhere
in space, all that we see here and now will be
seen to exist. Go back from this point to a
previous period, and then count back as far as
you wish; there is yet time and space and intel-
'* There is an eternal law of progress which
holds good always and everywhere. It has been
operating all through the ages of the past. Now,
let us take one of these Intelligences away back
in the far distance past and place him in the path
of progress so that the eternal law of growth and
advancement will operate on him. I care not
whether you apply the result to Intelligences as
individuals or as the race. Given time enough,
this endless and eternal advancement must result in
a state of perfection that those who attain to it
may with truth and propriety be called Gods.
Therefore, there must be a God, yes, many Gods
living and reigning throughout the limitless re-
gions of glorified space.
**Here is corroborative evidence: I read in the
Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88: 'All king-
doms have a law given; and there are many king-
doms; for there is no space in the which there is
no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which
there is no space, either a greater or a lesser king-
dom. And unto every kingdom is given a law;
and unto every law there are certain bounds also
** There is a hymn in our hymn book in which
W. W. Phelps expresses this idea beautifully.
Let me read it :
* If you could hie to Kolob,
In the twinkling of an eye,
And then continue onward,
With that same speed to fly,
'Do you think that you could ever,
Through all eternity,
Find out the generation
Where Gods began to be!
'Or see the grand beginning
Where space did not extend?
Or view the last creation,
Where Gods and matter end?
' Methinks the Spirit whispers :
No man has found ''pure space/'
Nor seen the outside curtains,
Where nothing has a place.
'The works of God continue,
And worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round.
' There is on end to matter,
There is no end to space,
There is no end to spirit.
There is no end to race.
'There is no end to virtue,
There is no end to might,
There is no end to wisdom.
There is no end to light.
'There is no end to union.
There is no end to youth,
There is no end to priesthood,
There is no end to truth.
* There is no end to glory,
There is no end to love,
There is no end to being.
Grim death reigns not above. '
''The Latter-day Saints have been adversely
criticized for holding out such astounding hopes
for the future of the human race; but let us
reason a little more, beginning nearer home. What
has the race accomplished, even within the short
span of our own recollection? Man is fast con-
quering the forces of nature about him, and mak-
ing these forces to serve him. Now, we must
remember that duration extends ahead of us in
the same limitless way in which it reaches back.
Give, then, the race today all the time necessary,
what cannot it accomplish? Apply it again either
to an individual or to the race, in time, some would
attain to what we conceive of as perfection, and
the term by which such beings are known to us is
God. I can see no other logical conclusion.''
The chairs were now pushed back, and Mrs.
Trent threw a cloth over the table just as it stood,
explaining that she would not take the time from
her company to devote to the dishes. She invited
them into Dorian's little room, much to that
young man's uneasiness.
His mother had tidied the room, so it was pre-
sentable. His picture, ^'Sunset in Marshland"
had been lowered a little on the wall, and directly
over it hung a photograph of Mildred Brown. To
Dorian's questioning look, Mrs. Trent explained,
that Mrs. Brown had sent it just the other day.
Dorian looked closely at the beautiful picture,
and a strange feeling came over him. Had Mildred
gone on in this eternal course of progress of
which Uncle Zed had been speaking? Was she
still away ahead of him? Would he ever reach
On his study table were a number of books,
birthday presents. One was from Uncle Zed's
precious store, and one — What? He picked it up
— '* David Copperfield. ' ' He opened the beautiful
volume and read on the fly leaf: *'From Carlia,
to make up a little for your loss." He remem-
bered now that Carlia, some time before, had
asked him what books were in the package which
had gone down the canal at the time when he
had pulled her out of the water. Carlia had not
forgotten; and she was not here; the supper was
over, and it was getting late. Why had she not
The party broke up early, as it was a busy
season with them all. Dorian walked home with
Uncle Zed, then he had a mind to run over to Car-
lia 's. He could not forget about her absence nor
about the present she had sent. He had never
read the story, and he would like to read it to
Carlia. She had very little time, he realized, which
was all the more reason for his making time to
read it to her.
As every country boy will, at every opportunity,
so Dorian cut crosslots to his objective. He now
leaped the fence, and struck off through the
meadow up into the corn field. Mr. Duke had a
big, fine field that season, the growing corn al-
ready reaching to his shoulder. The night was
dark, save for the twinkling stars in the clear
sky; it was still, save for the soft rustling of the
com in the breeze.
Dorian caught sight of a light as of a lantern
up by the ditch from which the water for irrigat-
ing was turned into the rows of corn and potatoes.
He stopped and listened. A tool grated in the
gravelly soil. Mr. Duke was no doubt using his
night turn at the water on his corn instead of
turning it on the hay-land as was the custom.
He would inquire of him about Carlia.
As he approached the light, the scraping ceased,
and he saw a dark figure dart into the shelter of
the tall corn. When he reached the lantern, he
found a hoe lying in the furrow where the water
should have been running. No man irrigates with
a hoe; that's a woman's tool. Ah, the secret was
out! Carlia was lending' the water. That's why
she was not at the party.
He stood looking down into the shadows of the
corn rows, but for the moment he could see or
hear nothing. He had frightened her, and yet
Carlia was not usually afraid. He began to
whistle softly and to walk down into the corn.
Then he called, not loudly, ''Carlia".
There was no response. He quickened his
steps. The figure ran to another shelter. He
could see her now, and he called again, louder
than before. She stopped, and then darted
through the corn into the more open potatoe
patch. Dorian followed.
''Hello, Carlia,''' he said, ''what are you doing?''
The girl stood before him, bareheaded, with
rough dress and heavy boots. She was panting
as if with fright. When she caught a full sight
of Dorian she gave a little cry, and when he came
within reach, she grasped him by the arm.
"Oh, is it you, Dorian?''
"Sure. Who else did you think it was? Why,
you're all of a tremble. What are you afraid of?''
''I — I thought it was — was someone else. Oh,
Dorian, I'm so glad it is you!"
She stood close to him as if wishing to claim
his protection. He instinctively placed his arm
about her shoulders. "Why, you silly girl, the
dark won't hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of—
Oh, Dorian, don't let him hurt me!" There was
a sob in her voice.
"What are you talking about? I believe you're
not well. Are your feet wet? Have you a
fever?" He put his hand on her forehead, brush-
ing back the dark, towsled hair. He took her
plump, work-roughened hand in his bigger and
equally rough one. "And this is why you were
not to my party," he said.
"Yes; I hated to miss it, but father's rheumatism
was so bad that he could not come out. So it
was up to me. We havn't any too much water
this summer. I'd better turn the water down
another row; it's flooding the com."
They went to the lantern on the ditch bank.
Dorian picked up the hoe and made the proper
adjustment of the water flow. '^How long will
it take for the water to reach the bottom of the
row?" he asked.
''About fifteen minutes."
''And how many rows remain?"
Carlia counted. "Twelve," she said. '
"All right. This is a small stream and will
only allow for three rows at a time. Three into
twelve is four, and four times fifteen is sixty.
It is now half past ten. Well get through by
twelve o'clock easy."
"You'd better go home. I'm all right now.
I'm not afraid."
"I said we will get home. Sit down here on
the bank. Are you cold?" He took off his
coat and placed it about her shoulders. She
made no objections, though in truth she was not
"Tell me about the party," she said.
He told her who were there, and how they had
"And did Uncle Zed preach?"
"Preach? 0, yes, he talked mighty fine. I
wish I could tell you what he said."
"What was it about?"
"About God," he answered reverently.
''Try to tell me, Dorian. I need to know. Pm
such a dunce.''
Dorian repeated in his way Uncle Zed's argu-
ment, and he succeeded fairly well in his presen-
tation of the subject. The still night under the
shining stars added an impressive setting to the
telling, and the girl close by his side drank in
hungrily every word. When the water reached
the end of the rows, it was turned into others,
until all were irrigated. When that was ac-
complished, Dorian's watch showed half past
eleven. He picked up the lantern and the hoe,
and they walked back to the house.
''The party was quite complete, after all," he
said at the door. "I've enjoyed this little after-
affair as much as I did the party."
"I'm glad," she whispered.
"And it was wonderfully good of you to give
me that present."
I'm glad," she repeated.
Do you know what I was thinking about when
I opened the book and saw it was from you?"
"Why, I thought, we'll read this book to-
gether, you and I."
"Wouldn't that be fine!"
"We can't do that now, of course; but after
a while when we get more time. I'll not read it
until then.... Well, you're tired. Go to bed
Good night, Carlia."
Goodnight, Dorian, and thank you for helping
They stood close together, she on the step above
him. The lamp, placed on the kitchen table for
her use, threw its light against the glass door
which formed a background for the girl's rough-
ened hair, soiled and sweat-stained face, and red,
''Goodnight," he said again; and then he leaned
forward and kissed her.
THAT goodnight 's kiss should have brought
Dorian back to Carlia sooner than it did;
but it was nearly a month before he saw
her again. The fact that it was the busiest time
of the year was surely no adaquate excuse for
this neglect. Harvest was on again, and the dry-
farm called for much of his attention. Dorian
prospered, and he had no time to devote to the
girls, so he thought, and so he said, when occasion
One evening while driving through the city and
seeing the lights of the moving picture theatre,
he was reminded of his promise to Carlia. His
conscience pricked him just a little, so the very
next evening he drove up to Farmer Duke's. See-
ing no one choring about, he went into the house
and inquired after Carlia. Mrs. Duke told him that
Carlia had gone to the city that afternoon. She
was expected back any minute, but one could
never tell, lately, when she would get home.
Since this Mr. Lamont had taken her to the
oity a number of times, she had been late in
''Mr. Lamont?'' he inquired.
'*Yes; havn't you met him? Don't you know
^'No; who is he?''
*' Dorian, I don't know. Father seems to think
he's all right, but I don't like him. Oh, Dorian,
why don't you come around oftener?"
Mrs. Duke sank into a chair and wiped away
the tears from her eyes with the comer of her
apron. Dorian experienced a strange sinking of
the heart. Again he asked who this Mr. Lamont
''He's a salesman of some kind, so he says. He
drives about in one of those automobiles. Surely,
you have seen him — a fine-looking fellow with
nice manners and all that, but — ^"
''And does Carlia go out with him?"
"He has taken her out riding a number of
times. He meets her in the city sometimes. I
don't know what to make of it, Dorian. I'm
Dorian seemed unable to say anything which
would calm the mother's fears. That Carlia
should be keeping company with someone other
than himself, had never accured to him. And yet,
why not? she was aid enough to accept atten-
tion from young men. He had certainly neglect-
ed her, a9 the mother had implied. The girl had
sueh few opportunities for going out, why should
she not accept such as came to her. But this
stranger, this outsider! Dorian soon took his de-
He went home, unhitched, and put up his horse ;
but instead of going into the house, he walked
down to the post office. He found nothing in
his box. He felt better in the open, so he con-
tinued to walk. He had told his mother he was
going to the city, so he might as well walk that
way. Soon the lights gleamed through the com-
ing darkness. He went on with his confused
thoughts, on into the city and to the moving
picture show. He bought a ticket and an at-
tendant led him stumbling in the dark room to
It was the first time he had been there. He
and Carlia were going together. It was quite
wonderful to the young man to see the actors
moving about lifelike on the white screen. The/
story contained a number of love-making scenes,
which, had they been enacted in real life, in
public as this was, they would certainly have been
stopped by the police. Then there was a comic
picture wherein a young fellow was playing pranks
on an old man. The presentation could hardly
be said to teach respect for old age, but the
audience laughed uproariously at it.
When the picture closed and the lights went
on, Dorian turned about to leave, and there stood
Carlia. A young man was assisting her into her
light wraps. She saw him, so there was no
escape, and they spoke to each other. Carlia
introduced her escort, Mr. Lamont.
*'61ad to know you,*' said Mr. Lamont, in a
hearty way. ''I've known of you through Miss
Duke. Going home nowT'
''Yes," said Dorian.
"No; I'm walking.''
"Then you'll ride with us. Plenty of room.
Glad to have you."
"Thank you, I—"
"Yes, come," urged Carlia.
Dorian hesitated. He tried to carry an inde-
pendent manner, but Mr. Lamont linked his arm
sociably with Dorian's as he said:
"Of course you'll ride home with us; but first
we'll have a little ice cream."
"No thanks," Dorian managed to say. What
more did this fellow want of him?
However, as Dorian could give no good reason why
he should not ride home with them, he found no
way of refusing to accompany them to a nearby
ice-cream parlor. Mr. Lamont gave the order,
and was very attentive to Carlia and Dorian. It
was he who kept the flow of conversation going.
The other two, plainly, were not adept at this.
"What did you think of the show, Mr. Trent?'
"The moving pictures are wonderful, but ]
did not like the story very much."
"It was rotten," exclaimed the other in seemins
disgust. I did not know what was on, or I shoulc
not have gone. Last week they had a fine picture,
a regular classic. Did you see it?
''No; in fact, this is my first visit.''
''Oh, indeed. This is Miss Duke's second visit
only. ' '
Under the bright lights Carlia showed rouge
on her cheeks, something Dorian had never seen
on her before. Her lips seemed redder than ever,
and he eyes shone with a bright luster. Mr. La-
mont led them to his automobile, and then Dorian
remembered the night when this same young man
with the same automobile had stopped near
Carlia 's home. Carlia seated herself with the
driver, while Dorian took the back seat. They
were soon speeding along the road which led to
Greenstreet. The cool night air fanned Dorian's
hot face. Conversation ceased. Even Carlia and
the driver were silent. The moon peeped over
the eastern hills. The country-side was silent.
Dorian thought of the strange events of the even-
ing. This Mr. Lamont had not only captured
Carlia but Dorian also. "If I were out with a
girl," reasoned Dorian,^ "I certainly wouldn't
want a third person along if I could help it."
Why should this man be so eager to have his
company? Dorian did not understand, not then.
In a short time they drove up to Carlia 's gate,
and she and Dorian alighted. The driver did not
get out. The machine purred as if impatient to
be off again and the^ lamps threw their streams
of light along the road.
''Well, I shall have to be getting back/' said
Mr. Lamont. ''Goodnight, Miss Duke. Thanks
for your company. Goodnight, Mr. Trent; sure
glad to have met you.''
The machine glided into the well-worn road and
was off. The two stood looking at it for a mo-
ment. Then Carlia moved toward the house.
"Come in" she said.
He mechanically followed. He might as well
act the fool to the end of the chapter, he thought.
It was eleven by the parlor clock, but the mother
seemed greatly relieved when she saw Dorian with
her daughter. Carlia threw off her wraps. She
appeared ill at ease. Her gaiety was forced. She
seemed to be acting a part., but she was doing
it poorly, Dorian was not only ill at ease himself,
but he was bewildered. He seated himself on the
sofa. Carlia took a chair on the other side of
the room and gazed out of the window into the
"Carlia, why did you — why do you," he stam-
"Why shouldn't I?" she replied, somewhat de-
fiantly as if she understood his unfinished question.
"You know you should not. It's wrong. Who
is he anyway?"
"He at least thinks of me and wants to show
me a good time, and that's more than anybody
'^Well, that's the truth.'' She arose, walked
to the table in the middle of the room and stood
challengingly before him. ''Who are you to find
fault? What have you done to—"
''111 admit I've done very little; but you, your-
"Never mind me. What do you care for met
What does anybody careT'
"Your mother, at least."
"Yes, mother; poor, dear mother Oh, my
God, I can't stand it, I can't stand it!" With
a sob she broke and sank dovsrn by the table, hid-
ing her face in her arms. Dorian arose to go t(v
her. The door opened, and the mother appeared.
"What is it, Carlia," she asked in alarm.
The girl raised her head, swiftly dashed the
tears from her eyes, then with a sad effort to
"Nothing, mother, nothing at all. I'm going
to bed. Where's father?"
"He was called out to Uncle Zed's who is sick.
Dorian's mother is there with him too, I under-
stand. ' '
"Then I'd better go for her," said the young
man. "I'll say goodnight. Poor Uncle Zed; he
hasn't been well lately. Goodnight Sister Duke,
Carlia stood in the doorway leading to the
stairs. "Goodnight, Dorian," she said. "Forgive
me for being so rude."
He stepped toward her, but she motioned him
back, and than ran up the carpetless stairs to her
room. Dorian went out in the night. With a
heavy heart he hurried down the road in the
direction of Uncle Zed's home.
UNCLE ZED'S illness did not prove fatal,
though it was serious enough. In a few-
days he was up and about again, slowly,
quietly providing for his simple needs. However,
it was plainly evident that he had nearly come to
the end of his earthly pilgrimage.
After the most pressing fall work had been
disposed of, Dorian spent as much of his spare
time as possible with the old man, who seemed
to like the company of the younger man better
than anyone else in the village; and Dorian, for
his part^ took delight in visiting with him, in
helping him with the heaviest of his not heavy
chores. Especially, was it pleasant during the
lengthening evening with a small fire and the
lamp newly trimmed. Uncle Zed reclined in his
easy chair, while Dorian sat by the table with
books and papers. Their conversations ranged
from flower gardens to dry-farms, and from agnos-
ticism to the highest degrees of the celestial glory.
And how they both reveled in books and their
contents on the ocasions when they were alone and
unhampered by the unsympathetic minds of others.
''As you see, Dorian/' said Uncle Zed on one
such Sunday evening, ''my collection of books is
not large, but they are such that I can read and
"Where is your 'Drummond's Natural LawT'
Uncle Zed looked about. ' ^ I was reading it this
morning. There it is on the window." Dorian
fetched him the volume.
I "When I read Drummond's work,' continued
the old man, "I feel keener than ever my lack of
scientific knowledge. I have always had a desire
to delve into nature's laws through the doors of
botany, zoology, mineralogy, chemistry, and all the
other sciences. I have obtained a smattering only
through my reading. I realize that the great ocean
of truth is yet before me who am now an old
man and can never hope in this life to explore
"But how is it, Uncle Zed," enquired Dorian,
"that so many scientists have such little faith?"
"'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life,'
The Spirit has taught us Dorian, that this world
is God's world, and that the laws which govern
here and now are the same eternal laws which
have always been in operation ; that we have come
to this world of element to get in touch with
earthly forms of matter, and become acquainted
with the laws which govern them. Dmmmond has
attempted to prove that the laws which prevail in
the temporal world about us also hold good in the
spiritual world, and he has made out a very good
case, I think ; but neither Drummond nor anybody '
else not endowed by the gift of the Holy Ghost,
can reach the simple ultimate truth. That's why
I have been looking for some young man in the
Church who could and would make it his life's
mission and work to learn the truths of science
and harmonize them where necessary with the
revealed truth — in fact, to complete what Henry
Drummond has so well begun.'' The old man
paused, then looking steadily at Dorian, said :
^* That's what I expect you to do."
^'I? Oh, do you think I could?"
'^Yes; it would not be easy, but with your apt-
ness and your trend of mind, and your ability to
study long and hard, you could, with the assis-
tance of the Spirit of God, accomplish wonders
by the time you are as old as I."
The young man mildly protested, although the
vision of what might be thrilled his being,
** Don't forget what I am telling you, Dorian.
Think and pray and dream about it for a time,
and the Lord will open the way. Now then, we
are to discuss some of Drummond 's problems,
were we not?"
**Yes; I shall be glad to. Are you comfortable?
Shall I move your pillow?"
*'I'm resting very easily, thank you. Just hand
me the book. Dnimmond's chapter on Biogenesis
interests me very much. I cannot talk very scien-
tifjfically, Dorian, on these things, but I hope to
talk intelligently and from the large vievi^point of
the gospel. Here is a paragraph from my book
which I have marked and called *The Wall Be-
tween.' I'm sure you will remember it. Let us
read it again:
'' 'Let us first place,'' he read from the book,
'vividly in our imagination the picture of the two
great Kingdoms of Nature, the inorganic and the
organic, as these now stand in the light of the
Law of Biogenesis. What essentially is involved
in saying that there is no Spontaneous Genera-
tion of Life? It is meant that the passage from
the mineral world is hermetically sealed on the
mineral side. This inorganic world is staked off
from the living world by barriers which have never
yet been crossed from within. No change of
substance, no modification of invironment, no
chemistry, no electricity, nor any form of energy,
nor any evolution can endow any single atom of
the mineral world with the attribute of life. Only
by bending down into this dead world of some
living form can these dead atoms be gifted with the
properties af vitality, without this preliminary
contact with life they remain fixed in the inorganic
sphere forever. It is a very mysterious Law
which guards in this way the portals of the living
world. And if there is one thing in Nature more
worth pondering for its strangeness it is the spec-
tacle of this vast helpless world of the dead cut
off from the living by the law of Biogenesis and
denied forever the possibility of resurrection
within itself. So very strange a thing, indeed, is
this broad line in Nature, that Science has long
sought to obliterate it. Biogenesis stands in the
way of some forms of Evolution with such stern
persistency that the assaults upon this law for
number and thoroughness have been unparalled.
But, as we have seen, it has stood tlie test. Nature,
to the modern eye, stands broken in two. The
physical Laws may explain the inorganic world;
the biological laws may acount for inorganic.
But of the point where they meet, of that living
borderland between the dead and the living,
Science is silent. It is as if God had placed every-
thing in earth and in heaven in the hands of
Nature, but reserved a point at the genesis of Life
for His direct appearing.'
''Drummond goes on to prove by analogy that
the same law which makes such a separation be-
tween the higher and the lov.'-er in the natural
world holds good in the spiritual realm, and he
quotes such passages as this to substantiate his
argument: ^Except a man is born again, he can-
not enter the kingdom of Qod\ Man must be
born from above. 'The passage from the natural
world to the spiritual world is hermetically sealed
on the natual side.' that is, man cannot by any
means make his own unaided way from the lower
world to the higher. 'No mental energy, no evo-
lution, no moral effort, no evolution of character,
no progress of civilization' can alone lift life from
the lower to the higher. Further, the lower can
know very little about the higher, for 'the natural
man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of
God; for they are foolishness to him; neither can
he know them, because they are spiritually dis-
cerned'. All of which means, I take it, that the
higher must reach down to the lower and lift it
up. Advancement in any line of progress is made
possible by some directing power either seen or
unseen. A man cannot simply grow better and
better until in his own right he enters the king-
dom of God'.''
*'But, Uncle Zed, are we not taught that we
must work out our own salvation?" asked Dorian.
That is also scriptural."
Yes; but wait; I shall come to that later. Let
us go on with our reasoning and see how this law
which Drummond points out — how it fits into the
larger scheme of things as revealed to us Latter-
day Saints. You remember some time ago in our
talk on the law of eternal progress we established
the truth that there always have been intelligences
evolving from lower to higher life, which in the
eternity of the past would inevitably lead to the
perfection of Gods. This is plainly taught in
Joseph Smith's statement that God was once a
man like us, perhaps on an earth like this, work-
ing out His glorious destiny. He, then, has gone
on before into higher worlds, gaining wisdom,
power, and glory. Now, there is another law of
the universe that no advancing man can live to
himself alone. No man can grow by taking selfish
thought to the process. He grows by the exer-
cise of his faculties and powers for the benefit of
others. Dorian, hand me the 'Pearl of Great
Dorian found the book and handed it to the old
man, who, finding the passage he wanted, con-
tinued: ** Listen to this remarkable statement by
the Lord: 'For behold, this is my work and my
glory — to bring to pass the immortality and eternal
life of man.' Just think what that means."
''What does it mean?"
"It means, my boy, that the way of progress is
the way of unselfish labor. 'This is my work/
says the Lord, to labor for those who are yet on
the lower rungs of the ladder, to institute laws
whereby those below may climb up higher; (note
I used the word climb, not float); to use His
greater experience, knowledge, and power for
others; to pass down to those in lower or primary
stages that which they cannot get by self-effort
alone. Let me say this in all reverence, they who
attain to All Things do not greedily and selfishly
cling to it, but pass it on to others. 'As one lamp
lights another nor grows less, So kindliness en-
kindleth kindliness.' Yes; through great stress
and sacrifice, they may do this, as witnessed in
what our Father has done by endowing His Be-,
loved Son with eternal life, and then giving Him
to us. That Son was the * Prince of Life.' He
was the Resurrection and the life.' He brought
Life from the higher kingdom to a lower, its
natural course through the ages. That is the only
way through which it can come. And herein, to
my humble way of thinking is the great error
into which the modern evolutionist has fallen. He
reasons that higher forms evolve from the initial
and unaided movements of the lower. That is as
impossible as that a man can lift himself to the
skies by his boot-straps.''
Dorian smiled at the illustration.
*'Now, my boy, I want to make an application
of these divine truths to us here and now. I'm
not going to live here much longer."
'^ Uncle Zed!"
'*Now, wait; it's a good thing that you nor any-
body else can prevent me from passing on. I've
wanted to live long enough to get rid of the fear
of death. I have reached that point now, and so
I am ready at any time, thank the Lord."
Uncle Zed was beautiful to look upon in the
clear whiteness of his person and the peaceful
condition of his spirit. The young listener was
deeply impressed by what he was hearing. (He
never forgot that particular Sunday afternoon).
''You asked me about working out our own sal-
vation," continued Uncle Zed. ''Let me answet^
you on that. There are three principles in the
law of progress, all of them important: First,
there must be an exercise of the will by the can-
didate for progression. He must be willing to ad-
vance and have a desire to act for himself. That
is the principle of free agency. Second, he must
be willing to receive help from a higher source;
that is, he must place himself in a condition to
receive life and light from the source of life and
light. Third, he must be unselfish, willing, eager
to share all good with others. The lack of any of
these will prove a serious hinderance. We see
this everywhere in the world.
''Coming back now to the application I men-
tioned. If it is God's work and glory to labor
for those below Him, why should not we, His sons
and daughters, follow His example as far as possi-
ble in our sphere of action? If we are ever to be-
come like Him we must follow in His steps and do
the things which He has done. Our work, also
must be to help along the road to salvation those
who are lower down, those who are more ignorant
and are weaker than we.''
''Which, Uncle Zed, you have been doing all
"Just trying a little, just a little."
"And this will be as it already has been, your
glory. I see that plainly."
"Why shoudn't it be everybody's work and
glory? What a beautiful world this would be if
this were the case!"
''And see, Dorian, how this principle ties toge-
ther the race from the beginning to the end, com-
paratively speaking. Yes, in this way will me}i
and families and races and worlds be linked to-
gether in chains of love, which cannot be broken,
worlds without end.''
The old man's voice became sweet and low.
Then there was silence for a few minutes. The
clock struck ten.
''I must be going," said Dorian. ''I am keep-
ing you out of bed.''
''You'll come again?"
"Come soon, my boy. I have so much to tell
you. I can talk so freely to you, something I
cannot do to all who come here, bless their hearts.
But you, my boy — "
He reached out his hand, and Dorian took it
lovingly. There were tears in the old man's eyes.
"I'll not forget you," said Dorian, "I'll come
soon and often."
"Then, good night."
"Good night," the other replied from the door
as he stepped out into the night. The cool breeze
swept over meadow and field. The world was open
and big, and the young man's heart expanded to
it. What a comfort to feel that the Power which
rules the world and all the affairs of men is un-
failing in its operations! What a joy to realize
that he had a loving Father to whom he could
go for aid! And then also, what a tremendous
responsibility was on him because of the knowl-
edge he already had and because of his God-given
agency to act for himself. Surely, he would need
light from on High to help him to choose the
Surely, he would.
AT the coming of winter, Uncle Zed was bed-
fast. He was failing rapidly. Neighbors
helped him. Dorian remained with him as
much as he could. The bond which had existed
between these two grew stronger as the time of
separation became nearer. The dying man was
clear-minded, and he suffered very little pain. He
seemed completely happy of he could have Dorian
sitting by him and they could talk together. And
these were wonderful days to the young man, days
never to be forgotten.
Outside, the air was cold with gusts of wind and
lowering clouds. Inside, the room was cosy and
warm. A few of the old man's hardiest flowers
were still in pots on the table where the failing
eyes could see them. That evening Mrs. Trent had
tidied up the room and had left Dorian to spend
the night with the sick man. The tea-kettle hummed
softly on the stove. The shaded lamp was turned
^'Yes, Uncle Zed.'^
**Turn up the lamp a little. It's too dark in
'* Doesn't the light hurt your eyes!"
**No; besides I want you to get me some papers
out of that drawer in my desk."
Dorian fetched a large bundle of clippings and
papers and asked if they were what he wanted.
''Not all of them just now; but take from the
pile the few on top. I want you to read them
to me. They are a few selections which I have
culled and which have a bearing on the things
we have lately been talking about."
The first note which Dorian read was as fol-
lows. '''The keys of the holy priesthood unlock
the door of knowledge to let you look into the
palace of truth'."
"That's by Brigham Young. You did not know
that he was a poet as well as a prophet," com-
mented the old man. "The next one is from him
" 'There never was a time when there were not
Gods and worlds, and when men were not passing
through the same ordeals that we are now passing
through. That course has been from all eternity
and it is and will be to all eternity'."
"Now you know, Dorian, where I get my in-
spiration from. Read the next, also from Presi-
" 'The idea that the religion of Christ is one
thing, and science is another, is a mistaken idea,
for there is no true science without religion. The
fountain of knowledge dwells with God, and He
dispenses it to His children as He pleases, and as
they are prepared to receive it; consequently, it
swallows up and circumscribes air."
''Take these, Dorian; have them with you as
inspirational mottoes for your life's work. Go on,
there are a few more.''
Dorian read again: '' 'The region of true re-
ligion and the region of a completer science are
one.' — Oliver Lodge."
"You see one of the foremost scientists of the
day agrees with Brigham Young," said Uncle
Zed. "I think the next one corroborates some of
our doctrine also."
Dorian read: "'We do not indeed remember
our past, we are not aware of our future, but in
common with everything else we must have had
a past and must be going to have a future.' —
Again he read: " 'We must dare to extend the
thought of growth and progress and development
even up to the height of all that we can realize
of the Supreme Being — In some part of the uni-
verse perhaps already the ideal conception has
been attained; and the region of such attainment
— the full blaze of self-conscious Diety — is too
bright for mortal eyes^ is utterly beyond our
highest thoughts.' — Oliver Lodge."
Uncle Zed held out his hand and smiled.
"There," he said in a whisper, "is a hesitating
suggestion of the truth which we boldly pro-
claim. ' '
''Now you are tired, Uncle Zed/' said Dorian.
''I had best not read more.''
''Just one— the next one."
" 'There are more lives 3^et, there are more worlds
For the way climbs up to the eldest sun.
Where the white ones go to their mystic mating.
And the holy will is done.
I'll find you there where our love life heightens —
Where the door of the wonder again unbars,
Where the old love lures and the old fire whitens,
In the stars behind the stars'."
Uncle Zed lay peacefully on his pillow, a wist-
ful look on his face. The room became still again,
and the clock ticked away the time. Dorian
folded up the papers which he had been told to
keep and put them in his pocket. The rest of the
package he returned to the drawer. He lowered
the lamp again. Then he sat down and watched.
It seemed it would not be long for the end.
"Yes, Uncle Zed, can I do anything for you?"
"No" — barely above a whisper — "nothing else
matters — you're a good boy — God bless you."
The dying man lay very still. As Dorian looked
at the face of his friend it seemed that the mor-
tal flesh had become waxen white so that the im-
mortal spirit shone unhindered through it. The
young man's heart was deeply sorrowful, but it
was a sanctified sorrow. Twice before had death
come near to him. He had hardly realized that of
his father's and he was not present when Mildred
had passed away; but here he was again with
death, and alone. It seemed strange that he was
not terrified, but he was not — everything seemed
so calm, peaceful, and even beautiful in its serene
Dorian arose, went softly to the window and
looked out. The wind had quieted, and the snow
was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes.
When Dorian again went back to the bedside and
looked on the stilled face of his friend, he gave
a little start. He looked again closely, listening,
and feeling of the cold hands. Uncle Zed was
The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to
overflowing at the funeral. Uncle Zed had gone
about all his days in the village doing good. All
could tell of some kind deed he had done, with
the admonition that it should not be talked about.
He always seemed humiliated when anyone spoke
of these things in his hearing; but now, surely,
there could be no objection to letting his good
deeds shine before men.
Uncle Zed had left with the Bishop a written
statement, not in the form of a will, wherein he
told what disposition was to be made of his
simple belongings. The house, with its few well
tilled acres, was to go to the ward for the use
of any worthy poor whom the Bishop might de-
signate. Everything in the house should be at
the disposal of Dorian Trent. The books, especi-
ally, should belong to him '*to have and to hold
and to study/' Such books which Dorian did not
wish to keep were to be given to the ward
Mutual Improvement Library. This information
the Bishop publicly imparted on the day of the
** These are the times, ^' said the Bishop, *'when
the truth comes forcibly to us all that nothing
in this world matters much or counts for much
in the end but good deeds, kind words, and un-
selfish service to others. All else is now dross
The mantle of Brother Zed seems to have fallen
on Dorian Trent. May he wear it faithfully and
A few days after the funeral Dorian and his
mother went to Uncle Zed's vacant home. Mrs.
Trent examined the furnishings, while Dorian
looked over the books.
''Is there anything here you want, mother? he
''No; I think not; better leave everything,
which isn't much, for those who are to live here.
What about the books?'
"I'm going to take most of them home, for I
am sure Uncle Zed would not want them to fall
into unappreciating hands; but there's no hurry
about that. We'll just leave everything as it is for
a few days."
The next evening Dorian returned to look over
again his newly-acquired treasures. The ground
was covered with snow and the night was cold.
He thought he might as well spend the evening,
and be comfortable, so he made a fire in the stove.
On the small home-made desk which stood in
the best-lighted corner, near to the student's hand
were his well-worn Bible, his Book of Mormon,
and Doctrine and Covenants. He opened the
drawers and found them filled with papers and
clippings, covering, as Dorian learned, a long
period of search and collecting. He opened again
the package which he had out the evening of
Uncle Zed's death, and looked over some of the
papers. These, evidently, had been selected for
Dorian's special benefit, and so he settled himself
comfortably to read them. The very first paper
was in the old man's own hand, and was a dis-
sertation on ''Faith." and read thus: ''Some
people say that they can believe only what they
can perceive with the senses. Let us see: The
sun rises, we say. Does it? The earth is still.
Is it? We hear music, we see beauty. Does the
ear hear or the eye see? "We burn our fingers.
Is the pain in our fingers? I cut the nerves lead-
ing from the brain to these various organs, and
then I neither hear nor see nor feel."
"How can God keep in touch with us?" was
answered thus: "A ray of light coming through
space from a star millions of miles away will act
on a photographic plate, will eat into its sensi-
tive surface and imprint the image of the star.
This we know, and yet we doubt if God can keep
in touch with us and answer our prayers."
Many people wondered why a man like Uncle
Zed was content to live in the country. The
answer seemed to be found in a number of slips:
''How peaceful comes the Sabbath, doubly blessed,
In giving hope to faith, to labor rest.
Most peaceful here: — no city's noise obtains,
And God seems reverenced more where silence
Once Dorian had been called a ''Clod hopper."
As he read the following, he wondered whether
or not Uncle Zed had not also been so designated,
and had written this in reply:
"Mother Earth, why should not I love you?
Why should not I get close to you? Why should
I plan to live always in the clouds above you,
gazing at other far-distant worlds, and neglecting
you? Why did I, with others, shout with joy
when I learned that I was coming here from the
world of spirits? I answer, because I knew that
'spirit and element inseparately connected re-
ceiveth a fulness of joy.' I was then to get in
touch with 'element' as I had been with 'spirit.'
This world which I see with my natural eyes is
the 'natural' part of Mother Eearth, even as the
flesh and bones and blood of my body is the ele-
ment of myself, to be inseparately connected with
my spirit and to the end that I might receive a
fullness of joy. The earth and all things on it
known by the term nature is what I came here
to know. Nature, wild or tamed, is my school-
room — the earth with its hUls and valleys and
plains, with its clouds and rain, with its rivers
and lakes and oceans, with its trees and fruits and
flowers, its life — about all these I must learn what
I can at first hand. Especially, should I learn
of the growing things which clothe the earth with
beauty and furnish sustenance to life. Some day
I hope the Lord will give me a small part of this
earth, when it is glorified. Ah, then, what a
garden shall I have!''
No one in Greenstreet had ever known Uncle
Zed as a married man. His wife had died long
ago, and he seldom spoke of her. Dorian had
wondered whether he had ever been a young man,
with a young man's thoughts and feelings; but
here was evidence which dispelled any doubt. On
a slip of paper, somewhat yellow with' age, were
the following lines, written in Uncle Zed's best
^*In the enchanted air of spring,
I hear all Nature's voices sing,
*I love you'.
By bursting buds, by sprouting grass,
I hear the bees hum as I pass,
'I love you'.
The waking earth, the sunny sky
Are whispering the same as I,
*I love you'.
The song of birds in sweetest notes
Comes from their bursting hearts and throats,
'I love yon'/'
^*0h. Uncle Zed!'' said Dorian, half aloud, ''who
would have thought it!"
Near the top of the pile of manuscript Dorian
found an envelope with ''To Dorian Trent," writ-
ten on it. He opened it with keen interest and
found that it was a somewhat newly written paper
and dealt with a subject they had discussed in
connection with the chapter on Death in Drum-
mond's book. Uncle Zed had begun his epistle by
addressing it, "Dear Dorian" and then continued
as follows :
"You remember that some time ago we talked
on the subject of sin and death. Since then I
have had some further thought on the subject
which I will here jot down for you. You asked
me, you remember, what sin is, and I tried to
explain. Here is another definition: Man belongs
to an order of beings whose goal is perfection.
The way to that perfection is long and hard,
narrow and straight. Any deviation from that
path is sin. God, our Father, has reached the
goal. He has told us how we may follow Him,
He has pointed out the way by teaching us the
law of progress which led Him to His exalted
state. Sin lies in not heeding that law, but in fol-
lowing laws of our own making. The Lord says
this in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88 :
'That which breaketh a law, and abideth not by
138 ^ DORIAN
law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and
willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in
sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy,
justice, nor judgement. Therefore, they must
remain filthy still. '
''Now, keeping in mind that sin is the straying
from the one straight, progressive path, let us
consider this expression: 'The wages of sin is
death'. This leads us to the question: what is
death? Do you remember what Drummond says?
He first explains in a most interesting way what
life is, using the scientist's phrasing. A human
being, for instance, is in direct contact with all
about him — earth, air, sun, other human beings, etc.
In biological language he is said to be 'in cor-
respondence with his environment/ and by virtue
of this correspondence is said to be alive. To live,
a human being must continue to adjust himself
to his environment. When he fails to do this, he
dies. Thus we have also a definition of death.
'Dying is that breakdown in an organization which
throws it out of correspondence with some neces-
sary part of the environment.'
"Of course, these reasonings and deductions per-
tain to what we term he physical death; but
Drummond claims that the same law holds good
in the spiritual world. Modern revelation seems
to agree with him. We have an enlightening
definition of death in the following quotation from
the Doctrine and Covenants, Secton 29: 'Where-
fore I the Lord God caused that he (Adam) should
be cast out from the Garden of Eden, from my
presence, because of his transgression, wherein he
became spiritually dead, which is the first death,
even that same death, which is the last death,
which is spiritual, which shall be pronounced upon
the wicked when I shall say Depart ye cursed'.
''It seems to me that there is a most interesting
agreement here. Banishment from the place
where God lives is death. By the operations of
a natural law, a person who fails to correspond
with a celestial environment dies to that environ-
ment and must go or be placed in some other,
where he can function with that which is about
him. God's presence is exalted, holy, glorified.
He who is not pure, holy, glorified cannot possibly
live there, is dead to that higher world. A soul
who cannot function in the celestial glory, may
do so in the terrestial glory; one who cannot
function in the terrestial, may in the telestial;
ynd one who cannot 'abide the law' or function in
the telestial must find a place of no glory. This
is inevitable— it cannot be otherwise. Immuttablo
law decrees it, and not simply the ruling of an
allwise power. The soul who fails to attain to
the celestial glory, fails to walk in the straight
and narrow path which leads to it. Such a per-
son wanders in the by-paths called sin, and no
power in the universe can arbitrarily put him in
an environment with which he cannot functon.
'To be carnally minded is death', said Paul. 'The
wages of sin is death', or in other words, he who
persistently avoids the Celestial Highway will
never arrive at the Celestial Gate. He who works
evilly will obtain evil wages. Anyway, what
would it profit a man with dim eyesight to be sur-
rounded with ineffable glory? What would be
the music of the spheres to one bereft of hearing?
What gain would come to a man with a heart of
stone to be in an environment of perfect and
Dorian finished the reading and laid the paper
on the desk. For some time he sat very still,
thinking of these beautiful words from his dear
friend to him. Surely, Uncle Zed was very much
alive in any environment which his beautiful life
had placed him. Would that he, Dorian, could
live so that he might always be alive to the good
and be dead to sin.
The stillness of the night was about him. The
lamplight grew dim, showing the oil to be gone,
so he blew out the smoking wick. He opened the
stove door, and by the light of the dying fire he
gathered up some books to take home. He heard
a noise as if someone were outside. He listened.
The steps were muffled in the snow. They
seemed to approach the house and then stop.
There was silence for a few minutes, then plainly
he heard sobbing close to the door.
What could it mean? who could it be? Doubtless,
some poor soul to whom Uncle Zed had been a
ministering angel, had been drawn to the vacant
house, and could not now control her sorrow.
Then the sobbing ceased, and Dorian realized he
had best find out who was there and give what
help he could. He opened the door, and a fright-
ened scream rang out from the surprised Carlia
Duke who stood in the faint light from the open
doorway. She stood for a second, then as if ter-
ror stricken, she fled.
'^Carlia," shouted Dorian. ^'Carlia!''
But the girl neither stopped nor looked back.
Across the pathless, snow-covered fields she sped,
and soon became only a dark-moving object on
the white surface. When she had entirely disap-
peared, Dorian went back, gathered up his bundles,
locked the door, and went wonderingly and medi-
IT is no doubt a wise provision of nature that
the cold of winter closes the activity in field
and garden, thus allowing time for study by
the home fire. Dorian Trent's library, having been
greatly enlarged, now became to him a source
of much pleasure and profit. Books which he
never dreamed of possessing were now on his
shelves. In some people's opinion, he was too
well satisfied to remain in his cosy room and
bury himself in his books; but his mother found
no fault. She was always welcome to come and
go; and in fact, much of the time ho sat with
her by the kitchen fire, reading aloud and discus-
sing with her the contents of his book.
Dorian found, as Uncle Zed had, wonderful
arguments for the truth of the gospel in Orson
and Parley P. Pratt's works. In looking througli
the ''Journal of Discourses," he found markings
by many of the sermons, especially by those of
Brigham Young. Dorian always read the passages
thus indicated, for he liked to realize that he was
following the former owner of the book even
in his thinking. The early volumes of the '^Mil-
lennial Stai^" contained some interesting reading.
Very likely, the doctrinal articles of these first
elders were no better than those of more recent
writers, but their plain bluntness and their very
age seemed to give them charm.
By his reading that winter Dorian obtained an
enlarged view of his religion. It gave him vision
to see and to comprehend better the whoJe and thus
to more fully understand the details. Besides, he
was laying a broad and firm foundation for hh
faith in God and the restored gospel of Jesus
Christ', a faith which would stand him Avell in
need when he came to delve into a faithless and
a Godless science.
Not that Dorian became a hermit. He took an
active part in the Greenstreet ward organizations.
He was secretary of the Mutual, always attended
Sunday School, and usually went to the ward
dances. As he became older he overcame some
of his shyness with girls; and as prosperity came
to him, he could dress better and have his mass
of rusty-red hair more frequently trimmed by the
city barber. More than one of the discerning
Greenstreet girls laid their caps for the big, hand-
some young fellow.
And Dorian's thoughts, we must know, were not
all the time occupied with the philosophy oi: Orson
Pratt. He was a very natural young man, and
there were some very charming girls in Green-
street. When, arrayed in their Sunday best, they
sat in the ward choir, he, not being a member
of the choir, could look at them to his heart's
content, first at one and then at another along
the double row. Carlia Duke usually sat on the
front row where he could see her clearly and
compare her with the others — and she did not
suffer by the comparison.
Dorian now begin to realize that it was selfish,
if not foolish, to think always of the dead Mildred
to the exclusion of the very much alive Carlia.
Mildred was safe in the world of spirits, where he
would some day meet her again; but until that
time, he had this life to live and those about him
to think of. Carlia was a dear girl, beautiful,
too, now in her maturing womanhood. None of
the other girls touched his heart as Carlia. He
had taken a number of them to dances, but he
had always come back, in his thought, at least,
to Carlia. But her actions lately had been much
of a puzzle. tSometimes she seemed to welcome
him eagerly when he called, at other times she
tried to evade him. No doubt this Mr. Jack La-
ment was the disturbing element. That winter
he could be seen coming quite openly to the Duke
home, and when the weather would permit, Carlia
would be riding with him in his automobile. The
neighbors talked, but the father could only shake
his head and explain that Carlia was a willful
Now when it seemed that Carlia was to be won
by this very gallant stranger, Dorian began to
realize what a loss slie would be to him. He was
sure he loved the girl, but what did that avail if
she did not love him in return. He held to the
opinion that s|gh attrhetions should be mutual.
He could see nPllense in the old-time custom of
the knight winning his lady love by force of arms
or by the fleetness of horse's legs.
However, Dorian was not easy in his mind, and
it came to the point when he suffered severe heart-
aches when he knew of Carlia's being with the
stranger. The Christmas holidays that season
were nearly spoiled for him. He had asked Carlia
a number of times to go to the parties with him,
but she had offered some excuse each time.
^ '*Let her alone,'' someone had >old him.
I ''No; do not let her alone/' his mother had
counseled; and he took his mother's advice.
Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meet-
ings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared
in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in
January, Dorian noticed the unusual palor of her
face. He wondered if she had been ill. He re-
solved to make another effort, for in fact, his
heart went out to her. At the close of the meet-
ing he found his way to her side as she was walk-
ing home with her father and mother. Dorian
never went through the formality of asking Carlia
if he might accompany her home. He had always
taken it for granted that he was welcome ; and, at
any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's
actions whether or not he was wanted.
^^I haven't seen you for a long time,'' began
Dorian by way of greeting.
The girl did not reply.
*'Been sick?" he asked.'
^^ Yes— no, I'm all right/'
The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two
young people to follow. Evidently, Carlia was
very much out of sorts, but the young man tried
again. ; | ^^
'* What's the matter, Carlia?"
*'Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my
No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia
looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents,
as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian
felt like turning about and going home, but he
could not do that very well^ so he went on to the
gate, where he would have said goodnight had not
Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and
mother w^ent to bed early, leaving the two young
people by the dining-room fire.
They managed to talk for some time on 'Svind
and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek,
Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous.
*' Carlia," he said, ''w^hy do you keep company
with this Mr. Lamont?"
She was standing near the book-shelf with its
meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his
*'Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked.
''You know why you shouldn't."
*'I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given,
but — what am I to do. He's so nice, and a per-
fect gentleman. What harm is there?"
''Why do you say that to me, Carlia?"
''Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite
him by the table. He was silent, and she re-
peated her question, slowly, carefully, and with
emphasis. ''Why not to you? Why should you
"But I do care."
"I don't believe it. You have never shown that
"I am showing it now."
"Tomorrow you will forget it — forget me for
"You've done it before — many times — you'll
do it again."
The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up
to carry through something she had planned to do,
something hard. She arose and stood by the table,
"I sometimes have thought that you cared for
me but I'm through with that now. Nobody
really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand.
I know how to milk and scrub and churn and
clean the stable — an' that's what I do day in and
day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save
when he takes me away from it for a little while.
He understands, he's the only one who does."
**You/' she continued in the same hard voice,
''you're altogether too good and too wise for such
as I. You're so high up that I can't touch you.
You live in the clouds, I among the clods. What
have we two in common?''
''Much, Carlia— I— "
He arose and came to her, but she evaded him.
"Keep away, Dorian; don't touch me. You had
better go home now."
"You're not yourself, Carlia. What is the
matter? You have never acted like this before."
"It's not because I haven't felt like it, but it's
because I haven't had the courage; but now it's
come out, and I can't stop it. It's been pent up
in me like a flood — ^now it's out. I hate this old
farm — I hate everything and everybody — I — ^hate
Dorian arose quickly as if he had been lifted to
his feet. What was she saying? She was wild,
"What have I done that you should hate me?"
he asked as quietly as his trembling voice would
"Done? nothing. It's what you haven't done.
What hate you done to repay — my — Oh, God, I
can't stand it — I can't stand it!"
She walked to the wall and turned her face to
it. She did not cry. The room was silently tense
for a few moments.
"I guess I'd better go,'' said Dorian.
She did not reply. He picked ap his hat, lin-
gered, then went to the door. She hated him.
Then let him get out from her presence. She
hated him. He had not thought that possible.
Well, he would go. He would never annoy any
girl who hated him, not if he knew it. How his
heart ached, how his very soul seemed crushed!
yet he could not appeal to her. She stood with
her face to the wall, still as a statue, and as cold.
''Good night," he said at the door.
She said nothing, nor moved. He could see
her body quiver, but he could not see her face. He
perceived nothing clearly. The familiar room,
poorly furnished, seemed strange to him. The
big, ugly enlarged photographs on the wall blurred
to his vision. Carlia, with head bowed now, ap-
peared to stand in the midst of utter confusion.
Dorian groped his way to the door, and stepped
out into the wintry night. When he had reached
the gate, Carlia rushed to the door.
''Dorian!" she cried in a heart-breaking voice,
"0, Dorian, come back — come back!"
But Dorian opened the gate, closed it, then
walked on down the road into the darkness, nor
did he once look back.
CARLIA'S ringing cry persisted with Dorian
all the way home, but he hardened his heart
and went steadily on. His mother had gone
to bed, and he sat for a time by the dying fire,
thinking of what he had just passed through.
After that, Dorian kept away from Carlia.
Although the longing to see her surged strongly
through his heart from time to time, and he could
not get away from the thought that she was in
some trouble, yet his pride forbade him to intrude.
He busied himself with chores and his books, and
he did not relax in his ward duties. Once in a
while he saw Carlia at the meeting house, but she
absented herself more and more from public
gatherings, giving as an excuse to all who inquired,
that her work bound her more closely than ever
Dorian and his mother frequently talked about
Uncle Zed and the hopes the departed one had
of the young man. ''Do vou really think, n*other.
that he meant I should devote my life to tho har-
monizing of science and religion?'' hi asked.
''I think Uncle Zed was in earnest. He had
great faith in you.''
''But what do you think of it, mother?''
After a moment's thought, the mother replied:
''What do you think of it?"
''Well, it would be a task, though a wonderfully
"The aim is high, the kind I would oxpect of
you. Do you know, Dorian, your father had some
such ambition. That's one of the reasons we came
to the country in hopes that sonu^ day he would
have more time for studying."
"I never knew that, mother."
"And now, what if your father and Uncle Zed
are talking about the matter ao there in the spirit
Dorian thought of that for a few moments.
Then: "I'll have to go to the University for four
years, but that's only a beginning. Ill have to
go East to Yale or Harvard and got all they have.
Then will come a lot of individual research, and —
Oh, mother, I don't know."
"And all the time you'll have to keep near to
God and never lose your faith in the gospel, for
what doth it profit if you gain the whole world of
knowledge and lose your own soul." The mother
came to him and ran her fingers lovingly through
his hair. "But you're equal to it, my son; I be-
lieve you can do it."
This was a sample of many such discussion,
and the conclusion was reached that Dorian should
work harder than ever, if that were possible, for
two or perhaps three years, by which time the
farms could be rented and the income derived from
them be enough to provide for the mother's simple
needs and the son's expenses while at school.
Spring came early that year, and Dorian was
glad of it, for he was eager to be out in the
growing world and turn that growth to produc-
tiveness. When the warm weather came for good,
books were laid aside, though not forgotten. Prom
daylight until dark, he was busy. The home farm
was well planted, the dry-farm wheat was grow-
ing beautifully. Between the two, prospects were
bright for the furthering of their plans.
''Mother, when and where in this great plan
of ours, am I to get married?"
Dorian and his mother were enjoying the dusk
and the cool of the evening within odorous reach
of Mrs. Trent's flowers, many of which had come
from Uncle Zed's garden. They had been talking
over some details of their ''plan." Mrs. Trent
laughed at the abruptness of the question.
"Oh, do you want to get married?" she asked,
wondering what there might be to this query.
"Well— sometimes, of course, I'll have to have
a wife, won't I?"
"Certainly, in good time; but yon 're in no
hurry, are you?"
"Oh, no; T'm just talking on freneral principles
There's no one who would have me now,"
The mother did not dispute this. She knew
somewhat of his feelings toward Carlia. These
lovers' misunderstandings were not serious, she
thought to herself. All would end properly and
well, in good time.
But Carlia was in Dorian's thought very often,
much to his bewilderment of heart and mind. He
often debated with himself if he should not de-
finitely give her up, cease thinking about her as
being anything to him either now or hereafter;
but it seemed impossible to do that. Carlia 's
image persisted even as Mildred's did. Mildred,
away from the entanglements of the world, was
safe to him; but Carlia had her life to live and
the trials and difficulties of mortality to encounter
and to overcome; and that would not be easy,
with her beauty and her impulsive nature. She
needed a man's clear head and steady hand to
help her, and who was more fitting to do that
than he himself, Dorian thought without conscious
If it were possible, Dorian always spent Sunday
at home. If he was on his dry farm in the hills,
he drove down on Saturday evenings. One Satur-
day in midsummer, he arrived home late and tired.
He put up his team, came in, washed, and was
ready for the good supper which his mother always
had for him. The mother busied herself about the
kitchen and the table.
''Come anrl sit rlown. mother," nrgred Dorian
''What's the fussing about? Everything I need
is here on the table. You're tired, I see. Come,
sit down with me and tell me all the news/'
''The news? what newsT'
"Why, everything that's happened in Green-
street for the past week. I haven't had a visitor
up on the farm for ten days."
"Everything is growing splendidly down here.
The water in the canal is holding out fine aud
Brother Larsen is fast learning to be a farmer "
"Good," said Dorian. "Our dry wheat is in
most places two feet high, and it will j^o from
forty to fifty bushels, with good luck. If now,
the price of wheat doesn't sag too much."
Dorian finished his supper, and was about to go
to bed, being in need of a good rest. His mother
told him not to get up in the morning until she
"All right, mother," he laughed as he kissed
her good night, "but don't let me be late to
Sunday School, as I have a topic to treat in the
Theological class. By heck, they really think I'm
Uncle Zed's successor, by the subjects they give
He was about to go to his room when his
mother called him by name.
''Yes, mother, what is it?"
''You'll know tomorrow, so I might as well tell
"Tell me what?"
"Some bad news."
^^Bad news? What is it?''
The mother seemed lothe to go on. She hesitated
''Carlia is gone."
^'Gone? Gone where?"
''Nobody knows. She's been missing for a week.
She left home last Saturday to spend a few
days with a friend in the city, so she said. Yester-
day her father called at the place to bring her
home and learned that she had never been there."
*'My gracious, mother!"
''Yes; it's terrible. Her father has inquired
for her and looked for her everywhere he could
think of, but not a trace of her can he find.
Mother and son sat in silence for some time. He
continued to ask questions, but she know no more
than the simple facts which she had told. He
could do nothing to help, at least, not then, so he
reluctantly went to bed. He did not sleep until
DORIAN was not tardy to Sunday School,
and, considering his mental condition, he gave
a good account of himself in the class. He
heard whispered comment on Carlia's disappear-
After Sunday school Dorian went directly to
Carlia's home. He found the mother tear-stained
and haggard with care. The tears flowed again
freely at the sight of Dorian, and she clung to him
as if she had no other means of comfort.
*'Do you know where Carlia is?" she wailed.
''No, Sister Duke, I haven't the last idea. I
haven't seen her for some time.''
''But what shall we do, Dorian, what shall w^
do? She may be dead, lying dead somewhere!"
I hardly think that," he tried to comfort her.
She'll turn up again. Carlia 's well able to
take care of herself."
The father came in. He told what had beea
done to try to find the missing girl. Not a word
had they heard, not a clue or a trace had been
discovered The father tried hard to (control hi»
emotions as he talked, but he could not keep the
tears from slowly creeping down his face.
''And I suppose I'm greatly to blame'' he said.
''I have been told as much by some, who I suppose,
are wiser than I am. The poor girl has been
confined too much to the work here."
''Work doesn't hurt anybody," commented
"No; but all work and no play, I was plainly
reminded just the other day, doesn't always make
Jack a dull boy: sometimes, it makes dissatisfac-
tion and rebellion — and it seems it has done that
here. Carlia, I'll admit had very little company,
saw very little of society. I realize that now
when it may be too late."
"Oh, I hope not," said Dorian.
"Carlia, naturally, was full of life. She wanted
to go and see and learn. All these desires in her
were suppressed so long that this is the way it
has broken loose. Yes, I suppose that's true."
Dorian let the father give vent to his feelings
ir. his talk. He could reply very little, for truth
to say, he realized that the father was stating
Carlia 's case quite accurately. He recalled the
girl when he and she had walked back and forth
to and from the high school how she had rapidly
developed her sunny nature in the warm, some-
what care-free environment of the school life, and
how lately with the continual drudgery of her
work, she had changed to a pessimism unnatural
to one of her years. Yes, one continual round of
work at the farm house is apt either to crush to
dullness or to arouse to rebellion. Carlia v/as of
the kind not easily crushed . . . But what could they
now do ? What could he do ? For, it came to him
with great force that he himself was not alto-
gether free from blame in this matter. Ho could
have done more, vastly more for Carlia Duke.
'^Well, Brother Duke,'' said Dorian. '^Is there
anything that I can do?"
''I don't think of anything,'' said he.
'^Not now," added the mother in a tone which
indicated that she did not wish the implied occa-
sion to be too severe. .
The father followed Dorian out in the yard.
There Dorian asked :
''Brother Duke, has this Mr. Lamont been about
*'He was here yesterday. He came, he said,
as soon as he heard of Carlia 's disappearance. He
seemed very much concerned about it."
''And he knew nothing about it until yester-
"He said not — do you suspect — he — might — ?"
"I'm not accusing anybody, but I never was
favorably impressed with the man."
"He seemed so truly sorry, that I never thought
he might have had something to do with it."
"Well, I'm not so sure; but I'll go and see him
myself. I suppose I can find him in his office in
''I think so— Well, do what you can for us, my
boy; and Dorian, don't take to heart too much
what her mother implied just now.''
''Not any more than I ought,'' replied Dorian.
*'If there is any blame to be placed on me — and
I think there is — I want to bear it, and do what
I can to correct my mistakes. I think a lot of
Carlia, I like her more than any other girl I know,
and I should have shown that to her both by word
and deed more than I have done. I'm going to
help you find her, and when I find her I'll not let
her go so easily."
''Thank you. I'm glad to hear you say that."
Monday morning Dorian went to the city and
readily found the man whom he was seeking. He
was in his office,
"Good morning. Glad to see you," greeted Mr.
Lamont, as he swung around on his chair, "Take
a seat. What can I do for you?"
As the question was asked abruptly, the answer
came in like manner.
"I want to know what you know about Carlia
Mr. Lamont reddened, but he soon regained his
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"You have heard of her disappearance?"
"Yes; I was very sorry to hear of it."
"It seems her father has exhausted every known
means of finding her, and I thought you miglit,
at least, give him a clew."
**I should be most happy to do so, if I could;
but I assure you I haven't the least idea where
she has gone. I am indeed sorry, as I expressed
to her father the other day. ' '
*^You were with her a good deal.''
''Well, not a good deal, Mr. Trent — just a
little," he smilingly corrected. ''I will admit I'd
liked to have seen more of her, but I soon learned
that I had not the ghost of a chance with you in
''You are making fun, Mr. Lamont."
"Not at all, my good fellow. You are the
lucky dog when it comes to Miss Duke. A fine
girl she is^ a mighty fine girl — a diamond^ just a
little in the rough. As I'm apparently out of the
race, go to it, Mr. Trent and win her. Good luck
to you. I don't think you'll have much trouble."
Dorian was somewhat nonplused by this ful-
some outburst. He could not for a moment find
anything to say. The two men looked at each
other for a moment as if each were measuring the
other. Then Mr. Lamont said:
"If at any time I can help you, let me know —
call on me. Now you'll have to excuse me as I
have some business matters to attend to."
Dorian was dismissed.
The disappearance af Carlia Duke continued to
be a profound mystery. The weeks went by, and
then the months. The gossips found other and
newer themes. Those directly affected began to
think that all hopes of finding her were gone.
Dorian, however, did not give up. In the
strenuous labors of closing summer and fall he
had difficulty in keeping his mind on his work.
His imagination ranged far and wide, and when it
went into the evil places of the world, he suffered
so that he had to throw off the suggestion by force.
He talked freely with his mother and with Car-
lia's parents on all possible phases of the matter,
until, seemingly, there was nothing more to bt
said. To others, he said nothing.
Ever since Dorian had been taught to lisp his
simple prayers at his mother's knee, he had found
strength and comfort in going to the Lord. With
the growth of his knowledge of the gospel and his
enlarged vision of God's providences, his prayers
became a source of power. Uncle Zed had taught
him that this trustful reliance on a higher power
was essential to his progress. The higher must
come to the help of the lower, but the lower must
seek for that help and sincerely accept it when
offered. As a child, his prayers had been very
largely a set form, but as he had come in con-
tact with life and its experiences, he had learned
to suit his prayers to his needs. Just now, Carlia
and her welfare was the burden of his petitions.
The University course must wait another year,
so Dorian and his mother decided. They could
plainly see that one more year would be needed,
besides Dorian was not in a condition to concen-
trate his mind on study. So, when the long even-
ings came on again, he found solace in his books,
and read again many of dear Uncle Zed's writings
which had been addressed so purposely to him.
One evening in early December Dorian and his
mother were cosily *^at home" to any good visitors
either of persons or ideas. Dorian was looking
over some of his papers.
*' Mother, listen to this," he said. ''Here is a
gem from Uncle Zed which I have not seen be-
fore." He read:
'' 'The acquisition of wealth brings with it the
obligation of helping the poor; the acquisition of
knowledge brings with it the obligation of teaching
others; the acquisition of strength and power
brings with it the obligation of helping the weak.
This is what God does when He says that His
work and His glory is to bring to pass the im-
mortality and eternal life of man'."
^'How true that is," said the mother.
"Yes," added Dorian after a thoughtful pause,
I am just wondering how and to what extent I am
fulfilling any obligation which is resting on me
by reason of blessings I am enjoying. Let's see —
we are not rich, but we meet every call made on
us by way of tithing and donations; we are not
very wise, but we impart of what we have by
service; we are not very strong — I fear, mother,
that's where I lack. Am I giving of my strength
as fully as I can to help the weak. I don 't know
—I don't know."
'*You mean Carlia?"
Yes; what am I doing besides thinking and
praying for lierT'
*'What more can we do?"
''Well, I can try doing something more/'
''What, for instance?''
"Trying to find her.''
"But her father has done that."
"Yes; but he has given up too soon. I should
continue the search. I've been thinking about
that lately. I can't stay cosily and safely at home
any longer, mother, when Carlia may be in want
"And what would you be liable to find if you
That question was not new to his own mind,
although his mother had not asked it before. Per-
haps, in this case, ignorance was more bliss than
knowledge. Whatever had happened to her, would
it not be best to have the pure image of her abide
with him? But he know when he thought of it
further that such a conclusion was not worthy of
a strong man. He should not be afraid even of
suffering if it came in the performance of duty.
That very night Dorian had a strange dream,
one unusual to him because he remembered it so
distinctly the day after. He dreamed that he
saw Mildred in what might well be called the
heavenly land. She seemed busy in sketching a
beautiful landscape and as he approached her, she
looked up to him and smiled. Then, as she still
gazed at him, her countenance changed and with
concern in her voice, she asked, "Where's Carlia?"
The scene vanished, and that was all of the
dream. In the dim consciousness of waking he
seemed to hear Carlia's voice calling to him as it
did that winter night when he had left her, not
heeding. The call thrilled his very heart again :
'^Dorian, Dorian, come back — come back!'*
THE second week in December Dorian went
into action in search of Carlia Duke. He
acknowledged to himself that it was like
searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack,
but inaction was no longer possible.
Carlia very likely had no large amount of money
with her, so she would have to seek employment.
She could have hidden herself in the city, but
Dorian reasoned that she would be fearful of
being found, so would have gone to some near-
by town ; but which one, he had no way of know-
ing. He visited a number of adjacent towns and
made dilligent enquires at hotels, stores, and some
private houses. Nothing came of this first week's
A number of mining towns could easily be
reached by train from the city. In these towns
many people came and went without notice or
comment. Dorian spent nearly a week in one of
them, but he found no clue. He went to another.
The girl would necessarily have to go to a hotel
ftt first, 80 the searcher examined a number of
hotel registers. She had been gone now about
six months, so the search had to be in some books
long since discarded, much to the annoyance of
Dorian left the second town for the third which
was situated well up in the mountains. The
weather was cold, and the snow lay two feet deep
over the hills and valleys. He became disheart-
ened at times, but always he reasoned that he must
try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel
register dated nearly five monhs back, he found
Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the
name. Carlia was not a common name, and the
handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He
examined the signature closely. The girl, unex-
perienced in the art of subterfuge, had started to
write her name, and had gotten to the D in Duke,
when the thought of disguise had come to her.
Yes; there was an unusual break between that
first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia had
been here. He was on the right track, thank the
Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remem-
bered the lady. Did he know anything about
her? No; that was so long ago. His people came
and went. That was all. But Carlia had been
here. That much was certain. Here was at least
a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which
he could work. His wearied and confused mind
could at least come back to that name in the hotel
He began a systematic search of the town. First
he visited the small business section, but without
results. Then he took up the residential district,
systematically, so that he would not miss any.
One afternoon he knocked on the door of what
appeared to be one of the best residences. After
a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly
painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the hand-
some young fellow and bade him come in. He
stepped into the hall and was shown into what
seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had
known had not smelled so of stale tobacco smoke.
He made his usual inquiry. No ; no such girl was
here, she was sorry, but — the words which came
from the carmine lips of the girl so startled
Dorian that he stood, hat' in hand, staring at her,
and shocked beyond expression. He know, of
course, that^ evil houses existed especially in
mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but
this was the first time he had ever been in such a
place. When he realized where he was, a real
terror seized him, and with uncermonious haste
he got out and away, the girl's laughter of de-
rision ringing in his ears.
Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his
room, his thoughts in a whirl, his apprehensions
sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should
be in such a place? A cold sv/eat of suffering
broke over him before he could drive 8way the
thought. But at last he did get rid of it. Hii
mind cleared again, and he set out determined to
continued the search. However, he went no more
into the houses by the invitation of inmates of
doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the
Then it oceured to Dorian that Carlia, being a
country bred girl and accustomed to work about
farm houses, might apply to some of the adjacent
farms down in the valley below the town for work.
The whole country lay under deep snow, but the
roads were well broken. Dorian walked out to a
number of the farms and made enquires. At the
third house he was met by a pleasant faced, elder-
ly woman who listened attentively to what he said,
and then invited him in. When they were both
seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her.
^*And why are you interested in this girl?'' she
Has she been here?" he asked eagerly.
Never mind. You answer my question."
Dorian explained as much as he thought proper,
but the woman still appeared suspicious.
''Are you her brother?''
''Her young man?"
"Not exactly; only a dear friend."
"Well, you look all right, but looks are de-
ceivin'." The woman tried to be very severe
with him, but somehow she did not succeed very
well. She looked quite motherly as she sat with
her folded hands in her ample lap and a shrewd
look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say:
'*I believe you know something about the girl
I am seeking. Tell me,'*
''You haven't told me the name of the girl you
are looking for."
''Her name is Carlia Duke."
"That isn't what she called herself."
"Oh, then you do know."
"This girl was Carlia Davis."
"Yes — ^is she here?"
"Do you know where she is?"
"No, I don't."
Dorian's hopes fell. "But tell me what you
know about her — you know something."
"It was the latter part of August when she
came to us. She had walked from town, an' she
said she was wanting a place to work. As she
was used to farm life, she preferred to work at a
country home, she said."
Was she a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl?"
Her hair was dark, but there was no rosei
in her cheeks. There might have been once. I
was glad to say yes to her for I needed help bad.
Of course, it was strange, this girl comin' from
the city a' wanting to work in the country. It's
usually the other way."
"Yes; I suppose so."
"So I was a little suspicious."
**That she hadn't come to work at all; thoHgh
I'll say that she did her best. I tried to prevent
her, but she worked right up tofhe last."
''To the last? I don't understand!"
''Don't you know that she was to be sick! That
she came here to be sick!"
"To be sick!" Dorian was genuinely at loss to
"At first I called her a cheat, and threatened to
send her away; but the poor child pleaded so to
stay that I hadn't the heart to turn her out. She
had no where to go, she was a long way from
home, an' so I let her stay, an' we did the best
Dorian, in the simplicity of his mind, did not
yet realize what the woman was talking about.
He let her continue.
"We had one of the best doctors in the city
'tend her, an' I did the nursing myself which I
consider was as good as any of the new-fangled
trained nurses can do; but the poor girl had been
under a strain so long that the baby died soon
after it was born."
"The baby!" gasped Dorian.
"Yes," went on the woman, all unconsciously
that the listener had not fully understood. "Yes,
it didn't live long, which, I suppose, in such cases,
is a blessing."
Dorian stared at the woman, then in a dazed
way, he looked about the plain farm-house furnish-
ings, some details of which strangely impressed
him. The woman went on talking, which seemed
easy for her, now she had fairly started; but
Dorian did not hear all she said. One big fact
was forcing itself into his brain, to the exclusion
of all minor realities.
''She left a month ago," Dorian heard the
woman say when again he was in a condition to
listen. ''We did our best to get her to stay, for
we had become fond of her. Somehow, she got
the notion that the scoundrel who had betrayed
her had found her hiding place, an' she was
afraid. So she left."
"Where did she go? Did she tell you?"
"No; she wouldn't say. The fact is, she didn't
know herself. I'm sure of that. She just seemed
anxious to hide herself again. Poor girl." The
woman wiped a tear away with the corner of her
Dorian arose^ thanked her, and went out. He
looked about the snow-corered earth and the clouds
which threatened storm. He walked on up to the
road back to the town. He was benumbed, but
not with cold. He went into his room, and, al-
though it was mid-afternoon, he did not go out
any more that day. He sat supinely on his bed.
He paced the floor. He looked without seeing out
of the window at the passing crowds. He could
not think at all clearly. His whole being was in
an uproar of confusion. The hours passed. Night
came on with its blaze of lights in the streets.
What could he do now? What should he do now?
'*0h, God, help me," he prayed, **help me to order
my thoughts, tell me what to do.'*
K ever in his life Dorian had need of help from
a higher power, it was now.
DORIAN had not found Carlia Duke ; instead,
he had found something which appeared to
him to be the end of all things. Had he
found her dead, in her virginal purity, he could
have placed her, with Mildred, safely away in his
heart and his hopes ; but this ! . . . . What more
could he now do ? That he did not take the first
train home was because he was benumbed into
The young man had never before experienced
such suffering of spirit. The leaden weight on his
heart seemed to be crushing, not only his physical
being, but his spirit also into the depths of despair.
As far back in his boyhood as he could remember,
he had been taught the enormity of sexual sin, until
it had become second nature for him to think of
it as something very improbable, if not impossible,
as pertaining to himself. And yet, here it was,
right at the very door of his heart, casting its evil
shadow into the most sacred precincts of his being.
He had never imagined it coming to any of his
near and dear ones, especially not to Carlia —
Carlia, his neighbor, his chummy companion in
fields and highways, his schoolmate. He pictured
her in many of her wild adventures as a child,
and in her softer moods as a grown-up girl. He
saw again her dark eyes flash with anger, and then
her pearly teeth gleam in laughter at him. He
remembered how she used to run from him, and
then at other times how she would cling to him
as if she pleaded for a protection which he had
not given. The weak had reached out to the
strong, and the stronger one had failed. If * re-
morse of conscience' is hell, Dorian tasted of its
bitter dephts, for it came to him now that perhaps
because of his neglect, Carlia had been led to her
But what could he now do? Find her. And
then, what? Marry her? He refused to consider
that for a moment. He drove the thought fiercely
away. That would be impossible now. The horror
of what had been would always stand as a repel-
lent specter between them Yes,, he had loved
her — he knew that now more assuredly than ever;
and he tried to place that love away from him by
a play upon words in the past tense; but deep
down in his heart he knew that he was merely
trying to deceive himself. He loved her still; and
the fact that he loved her but could not marry her
added fuel to the flames of his torment.
That long night was mostly a hideous nightmare
and even after he awoke from a fitful sleep next
morning, he was in a stupor. After a while, he
went out into the wintry air. It was Sunday, and
the town was comparatively quiet. He found
something to eat at a lunch counter, then he walked
about briskly to try to get his blood into active
circulation. Again he went to his room.
Presently, he heard the ringing of church bells.
The folks would be going to Sunday school in
Greenstreet. He saw in the vision of his mind
Uncle Zed sitting with the boys about him in his
class. He saw the teacher's lifted hand emphasize
the warning against sin, and then he seemed to
hear a voice read :
''For the Son of man is come to save that which
''How think ye if a man have an hundred sheep,
and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave
the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains,
and seeketh that which is gone astray?
"And if so be that he find it, verily, I say unto
you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of
the ninety and nine which went not astray.''
Dorian seemed to awaken with a start. Donning
coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being
led down the country road toward the farmhouse.
He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia
had been. Her presence there and her suffering
had hallowed it.
"Oh, how do you do?" greeted the woman, when
she saw Dorian at the door. "Come in.''
Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which
was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with
his Sunday paper.
'Tather,*' said the woman, *'tliis is the young
man who was here yesterday."
The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him
draw up his chair to the stove.
**I hope you'll excuse me for coming again/''
said Dorian; '*but the fact of the matter is I
seemed unable to keep away. I left yesterday
without properly thanking you for what you did
for my friend, Miss Carlia. I also want to pay
you a little for the expense you were put to. I
haven't much money with me, but I will send it to
you after I get home, if you will give me your
name and address. '^
The farmer and his wife exchanged glances.
'*Why, as to that,'' replied the man, ^'nothing
is owing us. We liked the girl. We think she
was a good girl and had been sinned against."
**I'm sure you are right," said Dorian. *'As
I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday. I
was so completely unprepared for that which I
learned about her. But I'm going to find her if
I can, and take her home to her parents."
*' Where do you live?" asked the man,
Dorian told him.
''Are you a 'MormonT*
"And not ashamed of it?"
"No; proud of it — grateful, rather."
"Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest
chap. Tell me why you are proud to bo a 'Mor-
Dorian did his best. He had had very little
experience in presenting the principles of the
gospel to an nnbeliever, but Uncle Zed's teachings,
together with his own studies, now stood him well
'^Well/' commented the farmer, '* that's fine.
You can't be a very bad man if you believe in
and practice all what you have been telling us."
''I hope I am not a bad man. I have some light
on the truth, and woe is me if T sin against that
The farmer turned to his wife. *' Mother/' ht
said," I think you may safely tell him."
Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman.
**It's this," she said. ''My husband brought
home a postcard from the office last evening after
you had left — a card from Miss Davis, asking us to
send her an article of dress which she had forgot-
ten. Here is the card. The address may help you
to find her. I am sure you mean no harm to the
Dorian made note of the address, as also that
of the farmer's with whom he was visiting. Then
he arose to go.
*'Now, don't be in such a hurry," admonished
the man. ''We'll have dinner presently."
Dorian was ^lad to remain, as he felt quite at
home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman.
They had been good to Carlia. Perhaps he could
learn a little more about her. The dinner was en-
joyed very much. Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, en-
couraged by Dorian's attentiveness, poured into
his willing ear all she had learned of the girl h(
was seeking; and before the woman ceased her
freely-flowing talk, a most important item had beej
added to his knowledge of the ease. Carlia, it
seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall.
*' Drugged'' was the word Mrs. Whitman used,
The villainy of the foul deed moved the young
man's spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch
who had planned it, and the same time his pity
increased for the unfortunate victim. As Doriar
sat there and listened to the story which th(
woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl
he again suffered the remorse of conscience whicl
comes from a realization of neglected duty and dis
regarded opportunity. It was late in the after
noon before he got back to the town.
The next day Dorian made inquiries as to ho^
he could reach the place indicated by the address
and he learned that it was a ranch house well ui
in the mountains. There was a daily mail in tha
direction, except when the roads and thi3 weathe;
hindered ; and it seemed that these would now b(
hinderances. The threatened storm came, an(
with it high wind which piled the snow into deep
hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly im]
passible. Dorian found the mail-carrier who toh
him that it would be impossible to make a starj
until the storm had ceased.. All day the snow fell]
and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and waj
tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs
Whitman; but he did not. Christmas was only-
three days off. He could reach home and spend
the day with his mother, but there would be con-
siderable expense, and he felt as if he must
be on the ground so that at the soonest possible
moment he could continue on the trail which he
had found. The pleasure of the home Christmas
must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in
very deed going into the mountains to seek that
which was lost.
The storm ceased toward evening, but the post-
man would not make a start until next morning.
Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him.
The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking
and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or
to stay. The road was heavy, and it was all the
two horses could do to draw the light wagon with
its small load. Dorian wondered how Carlia had
ever come that way. Of course, it had been be-
fore the heavy snow, when traveling was not so
^'Who lives at this place?" asked Dorian of the
driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent.
''That? Oh, that's John Hickson's place.''
''No; not exactly. He's out here mostly for
"Does he live here in the mountains the year
"Usually he moves into town for the winter.
Last year the winter was so mild that he decided
to try to stick one through; but surely, he's got
a dose this time. Pretty bad for a sick man, I
** Anybody with himT'
''Wife and three children — three of the cutest
kiddies you ever saw. Oh, he's comfortable
enough, for he's got a fine house. You know, it's
great out here among the pine hills in the summer;
but just now, excuse me."
''Is it far?"
"No." The driver looked with concern at the
storm which was coming again down the mountain
like a great white wave. "I think perhaps we'll
have to stop at the Hickson's tonight," he said.
The travelers were soon enwrapped in a swirling
mantle of snow. Slowly and carefully the dug-
ways had to be traversed. The sky was dense and
black. The storm became a blizzard, and the
cold became intense. The men wrapped them-
selves in additional blankets. The horses went
patiently on, the driver peering anxiously ahead;
but it must have been well after noon before the
outlines of a large building near at hand bulked
out of the leaden sky.
"I'm glad we're here," exclaimed the driver.
"Where?" asked Dorian.
They drove into the yard and under a shed
where the horses were unhitched and taken into a
stable. A light as if from a wood fire in a grate
danced upon the white curtain of the unshaded
windows. With his mail-bag, the driver shuffled
bis way through the snow to the kitchen door and
DOKIAN ^WW 181
knocked The door opened immediately and Mra.
Hickson, recognizing the mail-driver, bade him
come in. Two children peered curiously from the
doorway of another room. Dorian a little nerv-
ously awaited the possibility of Carlia's appear-
It was pleasant to get shelter and a warm
welcome in such weather. After the travelers
had warmed themselves by the kitchen stove, they
were invited into another room to meet Mr. Hick-
son, who was reclining in a big arm chair before
the grate. He welcomed them without rising, but
pointed them to chairs by the fire. They talked of
the weather, of course. Mr. Hickson reasoned that
it was foolish to complain about something which
they could not possible control. Dorian was in-
troduced as a traveler, no explanation being asked
or given as to his business. He was welcome. In
fact, it was a pleasure, said the host, to have com-
pany even for an evening, as very few people ever
stopped over night, especially in the winter. Do-
rian soon discovered that this man was not a rough
mountaineer, but a man of culture, trying to pro-
long his earth-life by the aid of mountain air,
laden with the aroma of the pines. The wife went
freely in and out of the room, the children also;
but somewhat to Dorian's surprise, no Carlia ap-
peared. If she were there in the house, she surely
would be helping with the meal which seemed to
be in the way of preparation.
The storm continued all afternoon. There could
be no thought of moving on that day And indeed.
182 ^ DORIAN
it was pleasant sitting thus by the blazing log in
the fireplace and listening, for the most part, to
the intelligent talk of the host. The evening meal
was served early, and the two gnests ate with the
\ family in the dining room . Still no Carlia.
*' When the driver went out to feed his horses and
'^ to smoke his pipe, and Mr. Hickson had retired,
the children, having overcome some of their tim-
idity, turned their attention to Dorian. The girl,
the oldest, with dark hair and rosy cheeks, re-
minded him of another girl just then in his
thoughts. The two small boys were chubby and
light haired, after the mother. When Dorian
managed to get the children close to him, they
reminded him that Christmas was only one day
distant. Did he live near by? Was he going
home for Christmas? What was Santa Claus
going to bring him?
Dorian warmed to their sociability and their
clatter. He learned from them that their Christ-
mas this year would likely be somewhat of a fail-
ure. Daddy was sick. There was no Christmas tree,
and they doubted Santa Claus' ability to find his
way up in the mountains in the storm. This was
the first winter they had been here. Always they
had been in town during the holidays, where it
was easy for Santa to reach them; but now — the
little girl plainly choked back the tears of disap-
''Why, if it's a Christmas tree you want," said
Dorian, ''that ought to be easy. There are plenty
up on the nearby hills."
"Yes; but neither papa nor mama nor we can
"But I can."
"Oh, will you? Tomorrow?"
"Yes; tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We'll have
to have it then."
The children were dancing with #ee as the
mother came in and learned what had been going
on. "You mustn't bother the gentleman," she
admonished, but Dorian pleaded for the pleasure
of doing something for them. The mother ex-
plained that because of unforeseen difficulties the
children were doomed to disappointment this holi-
day season, and they would have to be satisfied
with what scanty preparation could be made.
"I think I can help," suggested the young man,
patting the littlest confiding fellow on the head.
"We cannot go on until tomorrow, I understand,
and I should very much like to be useful."
The big pleading eyes of the children won the
day. They moved into the kitchen. All the cor-
ners were ransacked for colored paper and cloth,
and with scissors and flour paste, many fantastic
decorations were made to hang on the tree. Corn
was popped and strung into long white chains. But
what was to be done for candles? Could Dorian
make candles? He could do most everything,
couldn't he? He would try. Had they some parafine,
used to seal preserve jars. Oh, yes, large pieces
were found. And this with some string was soon
made into some very possible candles. The chil-
dren were intensely interested, and even the mail-
driver wondered at the young man's cleverness.
They had never seen anything like this before.
The tree and its trimmings had always been bought
ready for their use. Now they learned, which
their parents should have known long ago, that
there is greater joy in the making of a plaything
than in the possession of it.
The, question of candy seemed to bother them
all. Their last hopes went when there was not
a box of candy in the postman's bag. "What
should they do for candy and nuts and oranges
*'Can you make candy?" asked the girl of
Dorian as if she was aware she was asking the
**Now children," warned the happy mother.
''You have your hands full" she said to Dorian.
*' There's no limit to their demands."
Dorian assured her that the greater pleasure
** Tomorrow," he told the clammering children,
*'well see what we can do about the candy."
'* Chocolates?" asked one.
''Caramels," chose another.
"Fudge," suggested the third.
"All these?" laughed Dorian. Well, we'll see ---
tomorrow," and with that the children went to
bed tremulously happy.
The next morning the san arose on «i most
beautiful scene. The snow lay deep on mountain
and in valley. It ridged the fences and trees.
Paths and roads were obliterated.
Tho children were awake early. As Dorian
dressed, he heard them scampering dovni the stain.
Evidently, they were ready for him. Ho locked
out of the window. He would have to make good
about that tree.
As yet, Dorian had found no traces of the object
of his search. He had not asked direct questions
about her, but he would have to before he Itf i.
There seemed some mystery always just before
him. The mail-driver would not be ready to go
before noon, so Dorian would have time to get the
tree and help the children decorate it. Then he
would have to find out all there was to know about
Carlia. Surely, she was somewhere in the locality.
After breakfast, Dorian found the axe in the
wood-shed, and began to make his way through
the deep snow up the hill toward a small grove of
pine. Behind the shoulder of a hill, he discovered
another house, not so large as Mr. Hickson's, but
neat and comfortably looking. The blue smoke
of a wood fire was rising from the chimney. A
girl was vigorously shoveling a path from the
house to the wood-pile. She was dressed in big
boots, a sweater, and a red hood. She did not see
Dorian until he came near the small clearing by
the house. Straightening from her work, she stood
for a moment looking intently at him. Then with
a low, yet startled cry, she let the shovel fall, and
sped swiftly back along the newly-made path and
into the house.
It was Carlia.
DORIAN stood knee-deep in the snow and
watched the girl run back into the house.
In his surprise, he forgot his immediate
errand. He had found Carlia, found her well and
strong; but why had she run from him with a
cry of alarm? She surely had recognized him; she
would not have acted thus toward a stranger.
Apparently, she was not glad to see him. He
stood looking at the closed door, and a feeling of
resentment came to him. Here he had been
searching for her all this time, only to be treated
as if he were an unwelcome intruder. Well, he
would not force himself on her. If she did not
want to see him, why annoy her? He could go
back, tell her father where she was, and let him
come for her. He stood, hesitating.
The door opened again and a woman looked
out inquiringly at the young man standing in the
snow with an axe on his shoulder. Dorian would
have to offer a word of explanation to the woman,
at least, so he stepped into the path toward the
^^Good morning/^ he said, lifting his hat. ''I'm
out to get a Christmas tree for the children over
there, and it seems I have startled the young lady
who just ran in."
''Yes,'' said the woman.
''I'm sorry to have frightened her, but I'm glad
to have found her. You see, I've been searching
The woman stood in the doorway, saying noth-
ing, but looking with some suspicion at the young
"I should like to see her again," continued
Dorian. "Tell her it's Dorian Trent."
"Ill tell her," said the woman as she withdrew
and closed the door.
The wait seemed long, but it was only a few
minutes when the door opened and Dorian was in-
vited to come in. They passed through the kitchen
into the living room where a fire was burning in
a grate. Dorian was given a chair. He could not
fail to see that he was closely observed. The
woman went into another room, but soon returned.
"She'll be in shortly," she announced.
The woman retired to the kitchen, and presently
Carlia came in. She had taken off her wraps and
now appeared in a neat house dress. As she stood
hesitatingly by the door. Dorian came with out-
stretched hands to greet her; but she was not
eager to meet him, so he went back to his chair.
Bo°th were silent. He saw it was the ^ame Carlia,
with something added, something which must have
taken much experience if not much time to bring
to her. The old-time roses^ somewhat modified,
were in her cheeks, the old-time red tinted the full I
lips; but she was more mature, less of a girl and
more of a woman; and to Dorian she was more
beautiful than ever.
*'Carlia," he again ventured, '*I'm glad to see
you; but you don't seem very pleased with your
neighbor. Why did you run from me out there?"
''You startled me.'^
''Yes; I suppose I did. It was rather strange,
this coming so suddenly on to you. I've been
looking for you quite a while.''
"I don't understand why you have been looking
"You know why, Carlia."
"You're just talking to be talking — but here,
this sounds like quarreling, and we don't want to
do that so soon, do we?"
"No, I guess not."
"Won't you sit down."
The girl reached for a chair, then seated her-
"The folks are anxious about you. When can
you go home?"
"I'm not going home."
"Not going home? Why not? Who are these
people, and what are you doing here?^'
"These are good people, and they treat me fine.
I'm going to stay—here,"
**But I don't see why. Of course, it's none of
my business ; but for the sake of your father and
mother, you ought to go home."
'*How — how are they?"
**They are as well as can be expected. You've
never written them, have you, nor ever told where
you were. They do not know whether you are
dead or alive. That isn't right."
The girl turned her bowed head slightly, but
did not speak, so he continued: *'The whole town
has been terribly aroused about you. You disap-
peared so suddenly and completely. Your father
has done everything he could think of to find you.
When he gave up, I took up the task, and here
you are in the hills not so far from Greenstreet."
Carlia's eyes swam with tears. The kitchen
door opened, and the woman looked at Carlia and
then at Dorian.
*' Breakfast is ready," she announced. ''Come,
Miss Davis, and have your friend come too."
Dorian explained that he had already eaten.
''Please excuse me just now," pleaded Carlia,
to the woman. "Go eat your breakfast without
me. Mrs. Carlston, this is Mr. Trent, a neighbor
of ours at my home. I was foolish to be so scared
of him. He — ^he wouldn't hurt anyone." She
tried bravely to smile.
Alone again, the two were ill at ease. A flood
of memories, a confusion of thoughts and feelings
swept over Dorian. The living Carlia in all her
attractive beauty was before him, yet back of her
stood the grim skeleton. Could he close his eyes
to that? Could he let his love for her overcome
the repulsion which would arise like a black cloud
into his thoughts? Well, time alone would tell.
Just now he must be kind to her, he must be
strong and wise. Of what use is strength and '
wisdom if it is unfruitful at such times as
these? Dorian arose to his feet and stood in
the strength of his young manhood. He seemed
to take Carlia with him, for she also stood looking
at him with her shining eyes.
''Well, Carlia,'' he said, ''go get your breakfast,
and 111 finish my errand. You see, the storm
stopped the mail carrier and me and we had to
put up at your neighbour's last night. fhere I i
found three children greatly disappointed in not
having their usual Christmas tree. I promised I
would get them one this morning, and that's what
I was out for when I saw you. You know, Carlia,
it's Christmas Eve this morning, if you'll allow
• "Yes, I know."
"I'll come back for you. And mind, you do
not try to escape. I'll -be watching the house
closely. Anyway," he laughed lightly, "the
snow's too deep for you to run very far."
He came toward her, but she with averted face,
slipped toward the kitchen door.
"I can't go home, I can't go with you — really,
I can't," she said. "You go back home and tell
the folks I'm all right now, won't you, please."
"We'll talk about that after a while. I must
get that tree now, or those kiddies will think I
am a rank impostor." Dorian looked at his
watch. "Why, it's getting on toward noon. So
long, for the present."
Dorian found and cut a fairly good tree. The
children were at the window when he appeared,
and great was their joy when they saw him carry
it to the woodshed and make a stand for it, then
bring it in to them. The mail carrier was about
ready to continue his journey, and he asked
Dorian if he was also ready. But Dorian had no
reason for going on further ; he had many reasons
for desiring to remain. And here was the Christ-
mas tree, not dressed, nor the candy made. How
could he disappoint these children?
"I wonder," he said to the mother, "if it would
be asking too much to let me stay here until to-
morrow. I'm in no hurry, and I v^uld like to
help the children with the tree, as I promised.
I've been hindered some this morning; and—
" "Stay," shouted tue children who had heard
this. "Stay, do stay." ,. ^ ,;r
"You are more than welcome," replied Mrs.
Hickson; "but I fear that the children are im-
posing on you." .
Dorian assured her that the pleasure was his,
and after the mail carrier had departed, be
thought it wise to explain further.
'*A very strange thing has happened," said
Dorian. ^*As I was going after the tree for the
children, I met the young lady who is staying at
*'Yes; she's a neighbor of mine. We grew up
together as boy and girl. Through some trouble,
she left home, and — in fact, I have been searching
for her. I am going to try to get her to go home
to her parents. She^ — she could help us with our
tree dressing this evening."
**We'd like to have both our neighbors visit with
us," said Mrs. Hickson; *^but the snow is rather
deep for them,"
By the middle of the afternoon Dorian cleared
a path to the neighboring house, and then went
stamping on to the porch. Carlia opened the door
and gave him a smiling welcome. She had dressed
up a bit, he could see, and he was pleased with
the thought that it was for him. Dorian delivered
the invitation to the two women. Carlia would
go immediately to help, and Mrs. Carlston would
come later. Carlia was greeted by the children
as a real addition to their company.
**Did you bring an extra of stockings?" asked
Mrs. Hickson of her. **An up-to-date Santa Glaus
is going to visit us tonight, I am sure." She
glanced toward Dorian, who was busy with the
children and the tree.
That was a Christmas Eve long to be remem-
bered by all those present in that house amid soli-
tude of snow, of mountain, and of pine forests.
The tree, under the magic touches of Dorian and
Carlia grew to be a thing of beauty, in the eyes
of the children. The home-made candles and de-
corations were pronounced to be as good as the
''boughten ones.'' And the candy — what a
miracle worker this sober-laughing, ruddy-haired
young fellow was!
Carlia could not resist the spirit of cheer. She
smiled with the older people and laughed with the
children. How good it was to laugh again, she
thought. When the tree was fully ablaze, all,
with the exception of Mr. Hickson joined hands
and danced around it. Then they had to taste of
the various and doubtful makings of candies, and
ate a bread-pan of snow-white popcorn sprinkled
with melted butter. Then Mr. Hickson told some
stories, and his wife in a clear, sweet voice led the
children in some Christmas songs. Oh, it was a real
Christmas Eve, made doubly joyful by the simple
helpfulness and kindness of all who took part.
At the close of the evening, Dorian escorted Mrs.
Carlston and Carlia back to their house, and the
older woman graciously retired, leaving the parlor
and the glowing log to the young people.
They sat in the big armchairs facing the grate.
'^WeVe had a real nice Christmas Eve, after
all,'' said he.
'*Our Christmas Eves at home are usually quiet.
I'm the only kid there, and I don't make much
noise. Frequently, just mother and Uncle Zed and
I made up the company ; and then when we could
get Uncle Zed to talking about Jesus, and explain
who He was, and tell his story before He came to
this earth as the Babe of Bethlehem, there was a
real Christmas spirit present. Yes; I believe you
were with us on one of these occasions."
''Yes, I was."
Dorian adjusted the log in the grate. ''Carlia,
when shall we go home?" he asked.
''How can I go home?"
"A very simple matter. We ride on the stage
to the railroad, and then — "
"0! I do not mean that. How can I face my
folks, and everybody?"
"Of course, people will be inquisitive, and there
will be a lot of speculation; but never mind that.
Your father and mother will be mighty glad to
get you back home, and I am sure your father
will see to it that you — that you'll have no more
cause to run away from home."
"Vf hat— what?"
"Why, he'll see that you do not have so much
work — man's work, to do. Yes, regular down-
right drudgery it v\^as. Why, I hardly blame you
for running away, that is, taking a brief vaca-
tion." He went on talking, she looking silently
into the fire. "But now," he said finally, "you
have had a good rest, and you are ready to go
She sat rigidly looking at the glow in the grate.
He kept on talking cheerfully, optimistically, as if
he wished to prevent the gloom of night to over-
whelm them. Then, presently ,the girl seemed to
shake herself free from some benumbing influence,
as she turned to him and said :
''Dorian, why, really why have you gone to all
this trouble to find me?"
*'Why, we all wanted to know what had become
of you. Your father is a changed man because
of your disappearance, and your mother is nearly
''Yes, I suppose so; but is that all?''
"Isn't that enough?"
"Well, I— I—"
"Dorian, you're neither dull nor stupid, except
in this. Why did not someone else do this hunting
for a lost girl? Why should it be you?"
Dorian arose, walked to the window and looked
out into the wintry night. He saw the shine of the
everlasting stars in the deep blue. He sensed
the girl's pleading eyes sinking into his soul as if
to search him out. He glimpsed the shadowy
specter lurking in her background. And yet, as
he fixed his eyes on the heavens, his mind cleared,
his purpose strengthened. As he turned, there
was a grim smile on his face. He walked back
to the fire-place and seated himself on the arm of
"Carlia," he said, "I may be stupid — I am
stupid — IVe always been stupid with you. I know
it. I confess it to you. I have not always acted
toward you as one who loves you. I don't know
w^hy — lay it to my stupidity. But, Carlia, I do love
you. I have always loved you. Yes, ever since
we were children playing in the fields and by the
creek and the ditches. I know now what that
feeling was. I loved you then, I love you now. ' '
The girl arose mechanically from her chair,
reached out as if for support to the mantle. ^^Why,
Oh, why did you not tell me before^ — before" — she
cried, then swayed as if to a fall. Dorian caught
her and placed her back in the seat. He took her
cold hands, but in a moment, she pulled them
''Dorian, please sit down in this other chair,
Dorian did as she wanted him to do, but he
turned the chair to face her.
''I want you to believe me, Carlia."
''I am trying to believe you."
''Is it so hard as all that?"
"What I fear is that you are doing all this
for me out of the goodness of your heart. Listen,
let me say what I want to say — I believe I can
now You're the best man I know. I have
never met anyone as good as you, no, not even
my father— nobody. You're far above me. You
always have been willing to sacrifice yourself for
others ; and now— what I fear is that you are just
doing this, saying this, out of the goodness of
jrour heart and not because you reaUy— really love
"Carlia, stop— don't."
"I know you, Dorian. I've heard you and Uncle
Zed talk, sometimes when you thought I was not
listening. I know your high ideals of service, how
you believe it is necessary for the higher to reach
down to help and save the lower. Oh, I know,
Dorian; and it is this that I think of. You cannot
love poor me for my sake, but you are doing this
for fear of not doing your duty. Hush— Listen!
Not that I don't honor you for your high ideals—
they are noble, and belong to just such as I be-
lieve you are. Yes, I have always, even as a child,
looked up to you as someone big and strong and
good— Yes, I have always worshiped you, loved
you' There, you know it, but what's the use!"
Dorian moved his chair close to her, then said :
"You are mistaken, of course, in placing my
goodness so high, though I've always tried to do
the right by everybody. That I have failed with
you is evidence that I am not so perfect as you
say. But now, let's forget everything else but
the fact that we love each other. Can't we be
happy in tMt?" , , ., i
The roses faded from Carlia 's cheeks .though
coaxed to stay by the firelight.
"My dear," he continued, "we'll go home, and
I'll try to mak# up to you my failings. I think
I can do that, Carlia, when you become my wife.
"I can't, Dorian, Oh, I can't be that."
Why not Carlia?''
I can't marry you. I'm not — No, Dorian/'
In time, Carlia. We will have to wait, of
course; but some day" — he took her hands, and
she did not seem to have power to resist — ^^sorne
day" he said fervently, ''you are going to be mine
for time and for eternity."
They looked into each others faces wilhout fear.
Then: ''Go now, Dorian" she said. "I can't stand
any more to night. Please go."
"Yes; I'll go. Tomorrow, the stage comes again
this way, and we'll go with it. That's settled.
They both arose. He still held her hands.
"Goodnight," he repeated, and kissed her gently
on the cheek.
THE sudden return of Carlia Duke to her
home created as much talk as her disap-
pearance had done. Dorian was besieged
with enquirers whom he smilingly told that he
had just come across her taking a little vacation
up in the hills. What, in the hills in the depths
of winter? Why, yes; none but those who have
tried it know the comfort and the real rest one
may obtain shut out by the snow from the world,
in the solitude of the hills. He told as little as
possible of the details of his search, even to Car-
lia ^s parents. Any unpleasant disclosures would
have to come from her to them, he reasoned. Not
being able to get Dorian talking about the case,
the good people of Greenstreet soon exhausted their
own knowledge of the matter, so in a short time,
the gossip resumed its every-day trend.
Hardly a day passed without Dorian spending
some time with Carlia. She would not go to Sun-
day School or to Mutual, and it was some tiue
before he could convince her that it was a matter
of wisdom as well as of right that she should
attend some of the public ward meetings. Fre-
quently, he took his book to the Duke home and
read aloud to Carlia. This she enjoyed very much.
Sometimes the book was a first class novel, but
oftener it was a scientific text or a religions
treatise. Carlia listened attentively to his discu.^*-
sion of deep problems, and he was agreeably sur-
prised to learn that she could readily follow him
in the discussion of these themes; so that the long
winter evenings spent with her either at her home
or at his own became a source of great inspiration
to the young man who had not lost sight of the
mission assigned to him by the beloved Uncle Zed.
Dorian talked freely to Carlia on how he might
best fulfill the high destiny which seemed to lay
before him; and Carlia entered enthusiastically
into his plans.
''Fine, fine,'' she would say. ''Carry it out.
You can do it.''
^'With your help, Carlia."
"I'll gladly help you all I can; but that is so
little; what can I do?"
"Trust me, have faith in me; and when the time
comes, marry me."
This was usually the end of the conversation for
Carlia; she became silent unless he changed the
Dorian, naturally undemonstrative, was now
more careful than ever in his love making. The
intimacy between them never quite returned
to the earlier state. Complete forgetfulness
DORIAN 2 Q^
of what had been, was, of course, impossible, either
for Carlia or for Dorian; but he tried manfully
not to let the "specter" come too often between
him and the girl he loved. He frequently told her
that he loved her, but it was done by simple word
or act Dorian's greater knowledge gave him the
advantage over her. He was bound by this greater
knowledge to be the stronger, the wiser, the one
who could keep all situations well in hand.
One evening, when Carlia was unusually sweet
and tempting, he asked if he might kiss her good-
night. She set her face as if it were hard to deny
him, but she finally said :
"No; you must not."
"Why not, Carlia?"
"We're not engaged yet."
"We are not. I have never promised to marry
you, have I?" She smiled.
"No; I guess not; but that's understood."
"Don't be so sure." r
"There are some things definitely fixed /without
the spoken word."
"Good night, Dorian." She was smiling still.
"Good night, Carlia." Their hands met and
clasped, atoning the best they could for the for-
One evening when the feeling of spring was in
the air, Dorian was going to call on Carlia, when
he heard the approach of an automobile. As it
turned into the bystreet, leading to the Duke home,
Dorian saw the driver to be Mr. Jack Lamont.
Dorian kept in the road, and set his face hard.
As the machine had to stop to prevent running ^
over him, Dorian turned, walked deliberately to
the side of the car, and looking steadily into Mr.
Lamont 's face, said:
''I'm going to Mr. Duke's also. If I find you
there, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life.
For a moment, the two glared at each other,
then the automobile went on — on past the Duke
house toward town. When Dorian arrived at his
destination, Carlia greeted him with:
''Dorian, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," he laughed.
"You're as pale as a ghost."
"Am I? Well, I haven't seen any ghosts— Say,
mother wants you to come to supper. She has
something you specially like. Can you?"
"Sure, she can," answered her mother, for she
was glad to have Carlia out away from the work
which she was determined to stick to closer than
ever. Carlia was pleased to go, and kept up a
merry chatter until she saw that Dorian was ex-
ceptionally sober-minded. She asked him what was
the matter with him, but he evaded. His thoughts
were on the m.an whom he had prevented from
calling at her home that evening. What was his
errand? What was in the scoundrel's mind?
Dorian struggled to put away from him the dark
thoughts which had arisen because of his recent
encounter with Mr. Lamont. All the evening at
home and during their walk back he was unusu-
ally silent, and Carlia could only look at him with
Spring, once started, came on with a rush. The
melting snow filled the river with a muddy flood;
the grass greened the slopes ; the bursting willows
perfumed the air; the swamp awakened to the
warm touch of the sun. Dorian's busy season also
As soon as the roads were passible, Dorian drove
up to his dry-farm. On one of. these first trips he
fell in with a company of his neighboring dry-
farmers, and they traveled together. While they
were stopping for noon at a small hotel in the
canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed them.
They were not impatient, however, as the moisture
was welcome; so the farmers rested easily, letting
their horses eat a little longer than usual.
The conversation was such which should be ex-
pected of Bishop's counselors, president of Elders'
quorums, and class leaders in the Mutual, which
these men were. On this occasion some of the
always-present moral problems were discussed.
Dorian was so quiet that eventually some one called
on him for an opinion.
"I don't think I can add anything to the dis-
cussion," replied Dorian. "Only this, however:
One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the
terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I
shall never forget it. The result in my case is
that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong doing.
I am literally scared, I — "
Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway.
Mr. Jack Lamont stood there with a cynical ex-
pression on his face. His hat w^as tilted back on
his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from
his lips. The genial warmth of the room seemed
chilled by the newcomer's presence.
''G'day, gentlemen/' said Mr. Lamont. '*Mr.
Trent, here, is afraid, I understand.''
The men arose. Outside the clouds were break-
ing. Dorian stepped forward, quite close to Jack
''Yes, I am afraid," said Dorian, his face white
with passion, ''but not of what you think, not of
what you would be afraid, you dirty, low, scoun-
Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand,
but the men interferred, and they all moved out-
side into the yard. Dorian, still tense with anger,
permitted himself to be taken to the teams where
they began hitching up. Dorian soon had himself
under control, yet he was not satisfied with the
matter ending thus. Quietly slipping back to
where Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men pre-
paring to drive on, he said, "I want a word with
The other tried to evade.
"Don't try to get away until I'm through with
you. I want to tell you again what a contempt-
able cur you are. No one but a damned scoundrel
would take advantage of a girl as you did, and
then leave her to bear her shame alone."
'^ Do you mean Carlia — ''
''Don't utter her name from your foul lips.''
''For if you do, I might say, what have I got to
do with that ? You were her lover, were you not ?
you were out with her in the fields many times
until midnight, you — "
The accusing mouth closed there, closed by the
mighty impact of Dorian's fist. The blood spurted
from a gashed lip, and Mr. Lamont tried to defend
himself. Again Dorian's stinging blow fell upon
the other's face. Lamont was lighter than Dorian,
but he had some skill as a boxer which he tried to
bring into service; but Dorian, mad in his desire
to punish, with unskilled strength fought off all
attacks. They grappled, struggled, and fell, to
arise again and give blow for blow. It was all
done so suddenly, and the fighting was so fierce,
that Dorian's fellow travelers did not get to the
scene before Jack Lamont lay prone on the ground
from Dorian's finishing knockout blow.
"Damn him!" said Dorian, as he shook himself
back into a somewhat normal condition and spat
red on the ground. ''He's got just a little ot
what's been coming to him for a long time. Let
him alone. He's not seriously hurt. Let's go."
ON a Saturday afternoon in early July Dorian
and a neighbor w^tre coming home from
a week's absence up in the hills. They
were on horseback, and therefore they cut across
by way of the new road in course of construction
between Greenstreet and the city.
The river was high. The new bridge was not
yet open for traffic, but horses could safely cross.
As the two riders passed to the Greenstreet side,
they saw near the bridge down on the rocks by the
rushing river, an automobile, overturned and pretty
well demolished. Evidently, someone had been
trying to reach the bridge, had missed the road,
and had gone over the bank, which at this point
was quite steep.
The two m.en stopped, dismounted, and surveyed
the wreck. Someone was under the car, dead or
alive, they could not tell. Dorian unslung his rope
from his saddle, and took off his coat. ''I'll go
down and see," he said.
**Be careful," admonished the other, **if you
slip into the river, you'll be swept away."
Dorian climbed clown to where the broken
machine lay. Pinned under it with his body half
covered by the water was Mr. Jack Lamont. He
was talking deliriously, calling in broken sentences
for help. Dorian's hesitancy for an instant was
only to determine what was the best thing to do.
^ ' Hold on a bit longer, Mr. Lamont, ' ' said Dorian ;
but it was doubtful whether the injured man
understood. He glared at his rescuer with un-
seeing eyes. Part of the automobile was already
being moved by the force of the stream, and there
was danger that the whole car, together with the
injured man, would be swept down the stream.
Dorian, while clinging to the slippery rocks, tried
to pull the man away, but he was so firmly pinned
under the wreck that he could not be moved.
Dorian then shouted to his companion on the bank
to bring the rope and come to his assistance; but
even while it was being done^ a great rush of
water lifted the broken car out into the stream.
Lamont was released, but he was helpless to pre-
vent the current from sweeping him along.
Dorian reached for the man, but missed him and
stepped into a deep place. He went in to his arms,
but he soon scrambled on to a shallower point
w^here he regained his balance. The unconscious
Lam^ont was beginning to drift into the current
and Dorian knew that if he was to be saved he must
be prevented from getting into the grasp of the
mid-stream. Dorian took desperate chances him-
self, but his mind was clear and his nerves were
steady as he waded out into the water. His com-
panion shouted a warning to him from the bankjj;
but he heeded it not. Lamont's body was moving!
more rapidly, so Dorian plunged after it, and by
so doing got beyond wading depths. He did no<
mind that as he was a good swimmer, and appar^
ently, Mr. Lamont was too far gone to give anji
dangerous death grip. Dorian got a good hold o!
the man's long hair and with the free arm h(
managed to direct them both to a stiller pool lowei
down where by the aid of his companion, h(
pulled Lamont out of the water and laid him odji
the bank. He appeared to be dead, but the two|
worked over him for some time. No other helji
appeared, so once more they tried all the mean
at their command to resuscitate the drowned.
''I think he's gone," .said Dorian's companion.
''It seems so. He's received some internal in-i
jury. He was not drowned."
''Who is he, I wonder."
"His name is Jack Lamont."
"Do you know him?"
"I know him. Yes; let's carry him up the
bank. We'll have to notify somebody." .
The man was dead when he was laid on thei
soft warm grass. Dorian covered the lifeless forai
with his own coat.
"I'll stay here," suggested Dorian's companion,
"while you go and telephone the police station in
the city. Then you go right on home and get into
some dry clothes/'
Dorian did as he was told. After reaching the
nearest telephone, and delivering his message, he
went on home and explained to his mother what
had happened. Then he changed his clothes.
''What a terrible thing!'' exclaimed his mother.
And you also might have been drowned."
''Oh, no; I was all right. I knew just what 1
could do. But the poor fellow. I— I wish I could
have saved him. It might have been a double
salvation for him."
The mother did not press him for further ex<
planations, for she also had news to tell. As soon
as Dorian came from his room in his dry clothes,
she asked him if he had seen Brother Duke on
"No, mother; why?"
"Well, he was here not long ago, asking for
you. Carlia, it seems, has had a nervous break-
down, and the father thinks you can help."
"I'll go immediately."
"You'll have some supper first. It will take
me only a moment to place it on the table."
"No, mother, thank you; after I come back; or
perhaps I'll eat over there. Don't wait for me."
He was out of the house, and nearly running along
Dorian found Carlia 's father and mother under
great mental strain. "We're so glad you came,"
they said; "we're sure you can help her."
''What is the matter T'
^^We hardly know. We don't understand. This*
afternoon — that Mr. Jack Lamont — you remember
him — he used to come here. Well, lie hasn't been
around for over a year, for which we were very
thankful, until this afternoon when he came in his
automobile. Carlia was in the garden, and she
saw him drive up to the gate. When he alighted
and came toward her, she seemed frightened out
of her wits, for she ran terror stricken into the
house. She went up to her bedroom and would
not come down.
''He did not see her, then, to talk to herT'
''No; he waited a few moments only, then drove
"Where is Carlia now?"
"Still up in her room."
"May I go up to her?"
"Yes; but won't you have her come down?"
No, I'd rather go up there, if you don't mind."
Not at all. Dorian, you seem the only help we
He went through the living room to the stair-
wa3^ He noticed that the bare boards of the
stairs had been covered with a carpet, which madei
his ascending steps quite noiseless. Everything
was still in Carlia 's room. The door was slightly
ajar, so he softly pushed it open. Carlia was lyings
on her bed asleep.
Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about. The
once bare, ugly room had been transformed into
quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains
and wall-paper and some pretty furniture. The
father had at last done a sensible thing for his
Carlia slept on peacefully. She had not even
washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and
her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her
head. Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suf-
fering penitent, here was one.
In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing
that someone was in the room, she awoke with a
start, and sprang to her feet.
'^It's only Dorian,'' said he.
**0h!" she put her hand to her head, brushing
back her hair.
''Dorian, is it you?"
''Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red
hair.'' He tried to force cheerfulness into his
"I'm so glad, so glad it's you."
"And I'm glad that you're glad to see me."
"Has he gone? I'm afraid of him."
Afraid of whom, Carlia?"
Don't you know? Of course you don't know.
"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair;
but she took it nearer the open window, and he
pushed up the blind that the cool air might the
more freely enter. The sun was nearing the
western hills, and the evening sounds from the
yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers,
and sat down by her, looking silently into the
**I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the com-
mon, everyday cares as she tried to get her hair
into order. -
*'No; you're not. Never mind a few stray locks
of hair. Never mind that tear-stained face. I
have something to tell you."
''You said you were afraid, afraid of Mr. Jack
Lamont. ' '
''Yes," she whispered.
"Well, you never need be afraid of him again."
"I — I don't understand."
"Jack Lamont is dead."
She gave a startled cry.
"Dorian — ^you — ?"
"No; I have not killed him. He was and is
in the hands of the Lord." Then he told her
what had happened that afternoon.
Carlia listened with staring eyes and bated
breath. And Dorian had actually risked his life
in an attempt to save Jack Lamont! If Dorian
only had known! But he would never know,
never now. She had heard of the fight between
Dorian and Lamont, as that had been common
gossip for a time; but Carlia had no way of con-
necting that event with herself or her secret, as
no one had heard what words passed between
them that day, and Dorian had said nothing. And
now he had tried to save the life of the man
whom he had so thoroughly trounced. What a
puzzle he was ! And yet what a kind, open face
was his, as he sat there in the reddening evening
light telling her in his simple way what he had
done. What did he know, anyway? For it would
be just like him to do good to those who would
harm him; and had she not proved in her own
case that he had been more patient and kind to
her after her return than before. What did he
''Shall I close the window, he asked. ''Is there
too much draught?''
"No; I must have air or I shall stifle. Dorian,
tell me, what do you know about this Mr. La-
"Why, not much, Carlia; not much good, at
any rate. You know I met him only a few times.
He tried to answer her questions and at the
same time give her as little information as possi-
"But Dorian, why did you fight with him?"
"He insulted me. IVe explained that to you
"That's not all the reason. Jack Lamont could
not insult you. I mean, you would pay no atten-
tion to him if only yourself were involved."
"Now, Carlia, don't you begin to philosophize
on my reasons for giving Jack Lamont a licking
He's dead, and let's let him rest in as much
peace as the Lord will allow."
''Now, my dear, you feel able to go down and
have some supper. Your father and mother should
be told the news, and perhapi I can do that better
than anybody else. I'll go with you, and, if your
mother has something good for supper. 111 stay."
But the girl did not respond to his light speech.
She sat very still by the window. For a long,
long time— ages it seemed to her, she had suffered
in silent agony for her sin, feeling as if she.
were being smothered by her guilty secret. She
could not bring herself to tell it even to her
mother. How could she tell it to anyone else,
certainly not Dorian. And yet, as she sat there
with him she felt as if she might confide in him.
He would listen without aijger or reproach. He
would forgive. He — her heart soared, but her brain
came back with a jolt to her daily thinking again.
No, no, he must not know, he must never know;
for if he knew, then all would surely be over be-
tween them, and then, she might as well die and
be done with it !
''Come, Carlia." '
She did not even hear him.
But Dorian must know, he must know the truth
before he asked her again to marry him. But if
he knew, he would never urge that again. That
perhaps would be for the best, anyway. And yet
she could not bear the thought of sending him
away for good. If he deserted her, who else would
she have? No; she must have him near her, at
least. Clear thinking was not easy for her just
then, but in time she managed to say :
"Dorian, sit down Do you remember that
evening, not so long ago, Avhen you let me 'browse',
as you called it, among Uncle Zed's books and
"Yes; you have done that a number of times.'"
"But' there is one time which I shall remember.
It was the time when I read what Uncle Zed had
Avritten about sin and death."
"0, I had not intended you to see that."
"But I did, and I read carefully every word
of it. I understood most of it, too. 'The wages
of sin is death'.... That applies to me. I am a
sinner. I shall die. I have already died, accord-
ing to Uncle Zed."
"No, Carlia, you misapply that. We are all
sinners, and we all die in proportion to our sin-
ning. That's true enough; but there is also the
blessed privilege of repentance to consider. Let
me finish the quotation: 'The wages of sin is
death; but the gift of God is eternal life through
Jesus Christ our Lord'; also let me add what the
Lord said about those who truly repent ; Though
your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as
snow; though they be red like crimson, they shal
be as wool'. That is a great comfort to all oX
*'Yes; thank you, Dorian but — but now I
must tell you. The Lord may forgive me, but
''Carlia, I have long since forgiven you.''
''Oh, of my little foolish ways, of course; but,
Dorian, you don't know — ■''
''But, Carlia, I do know. And I tell you that
I have forgiven you.''
"The terrible thing about meV
"The unfortunate thing and the great sorrow
which has come to you, and the suffering — yes,
Carlia, I know.
"I can't understand your saying that."
"But I understand."
"Who told you?"
"Have you been there?"
' ' Dorian ! ' ' She stared past him through the cpen
window into the western sky. The upper disk
of the sun sank slowly behind the purple mountain.
The flaming underlining of a cloud reflected on
the open water of the marshland and faintly into
the room and on to the pale face of the girl.
Presently, she arose, swayed and held out her arms
as if she was falling. Dorian caught her. Tears,
long pent up, save in her own lonely hours, now
broke as a torrent from her eyes, and her body
shook in sobs. Gone was her reserve now, her
holding him away, her power of resistance. She
lay supinely in his arms, and he held her close.
0, how good it was to cry thus! 0, what a haven
of rest! Would the tears and sobs never cease?. . •
The sun was down, the color faded from the sky,
a big shadow enveloped the earth.
Then when she became quieter, she freed her
arms, reached up and clasped her hands behind his ,
neck, clinging to him as if she never wanted to
leave him. Neither could speak. He stroked her
hair, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, wiped away her
tears, unaware of those which ran unhindered ^
down his own face k
"Carlia, my darling, Carlia," he breathed.^
"Dorian, Oh, Dorian, how— good— yon— are !
CHAPTEE TWENTY ONE.
IT was a day in June — nearly a year from the
time of the ^* understanding" — a day made
more beautiful because of its being in the
mountains and on a Sunday afternoon. Dorian
and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated
as they were on the grassy hill-side overlooking
the drjMand farms near at hand and the valley
below, through which tumbled the brook. The wild
odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent
fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms. The air was
as clear as crystal. The mountains stood about
them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and
sure as the ages. The red glowed in Carlia 's lips
again, and the roses in her cheeks. The careworn
look was gone from her face. Peace had come into
her heart, peace with herself, with the man she
loved, and with God.
Dorian pointed out to her where the wild
strawberries grew down in the valley, and where
the best service berries could be found on the
hills. lie told her how the singing creek had,
when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his
Then they were silent for a time, letting the
contentment of their love suffice. For now all
barriers between these two were down. There
was no thought they could not share, no joy
neither trouble they could not meet together.
However, they were very careful of each other;
their present peace and content had not easily been
reached. They had come "up through great
tribulation," even thus far in their young lives.
The period of their purification seemed now to
be drawing to a close, and they were entering
upon a season of rest for the soul.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall
see God." This promise is surely not limited to
that hoped-for future time when we shall have
laid aside mortality, but the pure in heart see much
of God here and now— see Him in the beauty of
hill and dale, in cloud and blue sky, in placid
pool and running water, in flowers and insect,
and in the wonderful workings of the human
heart! And so Dorian Trent and Carlia Duke,
being of the pure in heart, saw much of God and
His glory that afternoon.
Then they talked again of the home folks, of
Mildred Brown, and of Uncle Zed; and at length
came to their own immediate affairs.
That fall Dorian was to enter tlie University.
The farm at Greenstreet would have to be let to
others, but he thought he could manage the dry-
farm, as most of the work came in vacation
season.^ Mrs. Trent did not want to leave her
home in the country,- but she would likely be-
come lonesome living all by herself; so there
would always be a room for her with Dorian and
Carlia in the little house they would rent near
the school. Then, after the University, there
would be some Eastern College for a period of
years, and after that, other work. The task
Dorian had set before him was a big one, but it
was a very important one, and no one seemed to
be doing it as yet. He might fail in accomplish-
ing what he and Uncle Zed and perhaps the Lord
had in mind regarding him, but he would do his
very best, anyway.
''You'U not fail,'' the girl at his side assured
''I hope not. But I know some men who have
gone in for all the learning they could obtain,
and in the process of getting the learning, they
have lost their faith. With me, the very object
of getting knowledge is to strengthen my faith.
What would it profit if one gains the whole world
of learning and loses his soul in the process.
Knowledge is power, both for good and for ill. I
have been thinking lately of the nature of faith,
the forrunner of knowledge. I can realize some-
what the meaning of the scripture which says that
the worlds were framed and all things in them
made by the power of faith. As Uncle Zed used
to say — "
"You always put it that way. Don't you know
anything of your own?"
"No; no one does. There is no such thing as
knowledge of one's own making. Knowledge has
always existed from the time when there has
been a mind to conceive it. The sum of truth
is eternal. We can only discover truth, or be
told it by someone who has already found it.
God has done that. He comprehends all truth,
and therefore all power and all glory is found in
Him It is the most natural thing in the world,
then, that we should seek the truth from the^ foun-
tain'head or source to us, and that is God."
Although it was after the usual time of the
Sunday sermon, Dorian felt free to go on.
" 'When the Son of Man cometh, shall He tmd
faith on the earth?' I hope to help a little to
xnake the answer. Yes. I know of nothing which
the world needs more than faith. Not many are
specializing in that field. Edison is bringing forth
some of the wonders of electricity; Burbank is
doing marvelous things in the plant world; we
have warriors and statesmen and philosophers and
philanthropists and great financiers a-plenty; w«
Lve scientists too, and some of them are helping^
Have you ever heard of Sir Oliver Lodge and
No- she never had. .
^Well"-and Dorian laughed softly to himsel
at the apparent egotism of the proposition- I
must be greater than either of them. I must know
all they know, and more ; and that is possible, for
I have the 'Key of Knowledge' which even the
most learned scholar cannot get without obedience
to the laws and ordinances of the gospel."
Carlia silently worshiped.
''Now/' he continued in a somewhat lighter
vein, ''do you realize what you are doing when
you say you will be my wife and put up with all
the eccentricities of such a man as I am planning
to be? Are you willing to be a poor man's wife,
for I cannot get money and this knowledge I am
after at the same time? Are you willing to go
without the latest in dresses and shoes and hats —
"Haven't I heard you say that the larger part
of love is in giving and not in getting?" replied
"Yes, I believe that's true."
"Well, then, that's my answer. Don't deny me
the joy I can get by the little I can give."
The sun was nearing the western mountains, the
sharpest peak's were already throwing shadows
across the valley.
"Come," said Dorian. "We had better go
down. Mother has come out of the cabin, and I
think she is looking for us. Supper must be
He took Carlia 's hand and helped her up. Then
they ran like care-free children down the gentler
'^Wait a minute/' cried Carlia, '^'m out of
breath. I— I want to ask you another question.''
''Ask a hundred."
''Well, in the midst of all this studying, kind
of in between the great, serious subjects, we'll
find time, wall we not, to read 'David Copperfield'—
He looked into her laughing eyes, and then
''Why, yes, of course," he said.
Then they went on again, hand in hand, down
into the valley of sunshine and shadow.
/>PR 1 ? >9!h FEB '6 'i
C ' 70 11
SEP 1 200!
NAY 2 2
OCT t 7
R£P 3 19 J6
Harold B. Lee Libra
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Utah Bookbinding Co. SLC, UT 6/20/06